Tracker's Travail

The Zombie Apocalypse-1

The Zombie ApocalypseThe dead man lay on his back on the gravel. He was naked, a fact that Deputy Jeter tried to overlook because this was a particularly attractive dead man. All in all a wonderful specimen of manhood, if one could ignore his lack of it. And the fist-sized hole in his forehead. His roommate, much thinner, lay a few feet away, also on his back, also naked. The hole in his forehead was much larger, in the sense that nearly the entire top of his skull had been ripped open. Jeter squatted, squinting. He tried to think of the man as a thing, for that’s all he was now, an empty vessel, a shattered gum ball machine. The only light in the basement was a single naked bulb swinging on a stringy cord from the ceiling, so he pulled a penlight from his coat and shined it into the ragged hole. It was empty, totally scooped out, like a pumpkin, like a—

“Like a bowl of ice cream,” a voice behind him said.

Jeter nearly toppled over the corpse. His hand shot out for balance, landing square on its chest, then he leaped up as if stung by a bee.

“My God, man! No need to molest the dead. He’s been through enough, don’t you think, without some backwoods deputy groping him like a horny eighth-grader.”

Jeter spun around. A man in a white linen suit was standing on the stairs, stooping down to peer into the basement. He was of medium build, a tad portly. On his head sat a wide-brimmed Panama hat; in the other he gripped a large leather briefcase. He took off his hat and held it against his chest.

Jeter would have thought him magnificent were that not so gay. Not that he, Jeter, was gay. No one was gay in Fredericksburg, not even the gays. Not even the gays at Merrimen’s, dancing all night, sweating to the incessant throb of techno music, drinking wine coolers, and dancing, oh so much dancing. Dammit!

“Who are you?” Jeter said.

The man on the stairs opened his mouth, but before he could answer, he was interrupted by a stampede from behind. A deep voice called out, “Topher! Topher! Zorn broke the bulbs in the spotlight and he was going to blame it on me but it’s not true because I was nowhere near it!”

Jeter peered up the well. The basement was at least seventy years old, and the ceiling was only six feet high, which made seeing up the steps difficult, unless, like the man in the linen suit (his name was Topher, was it?), he was standing at the bottom. All Jeter could see now, though, was a tremendous pair of legs in fur pants, and very large black boots, and very large hands, which were worrying the waistband wrapped around a very large waist.

“Not true! Not true!” another voice roared. More footsteps rattled the staircase, and another set of legs and boots and hands joined the soiree. “Gertrude was angry because he wanted to do the lights but I wouldn’t let him so he dropped the lights and stomped on them on purpose!”

“It’s my turn to do the lights!” Gertrude cried.

“No, it’s not. The schedule says it’s my turn.”

Gertrude’s boots spun to Topher in a panic. “I didn’t drop them on purpose. It was an accident.”

“And he kicked out a window and made several unfavourable comparisons about you.”

“That’s a bald faced lie!”

“Your face is a bald faced lie!”

“See! He hates your baldness.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please,” Topher said. “Shut the hell up!”

There was a momentary silence during which Jeter could imagine the jaws of the other two men hanging agape, then one of them said, “Well there’s no need to be rude.”

Topher stomped into the basement, shoes crunching on the gravel.

“We have a job to do here, you morons.”

The two pairs of boots tromped down after him, making the steps creak and groan, and into the basement stepped two of the largest, hairiest men Jeter had ever seen. They were so wide that the first one had to get out of the way before the second could squeeze through, and they were so tall that they had to stoop at least half-over in order to fit in the basement.

“Did they build the basements like this on purpose?”

Topher set his leather suitcase down on the gravel and said, “Of course, you oaf. Southerners are naturally stumpy. It’s because of all of that tobacco they ate. And cotton. Unlike we, their robust and towering brethren to the north. And by ‘we’ I mean ‘me.’ They built these cellars in the hopes that they’d be too small for the behemoth Union soldiers. It’s where they stored their gold and unmentionables.”

“The southerners ate tobacco?”

Topher snorted and knelt next to the body.

“And cotton. Stupid, I know. Why eat tobacco to make you short when you can smoke it and die of lung cancer? Which they did in droves, by the way. It’s why they lost the war.” He unclipped the lock on the suitcase and lay it open. Shining instruments sat neatly organized on a soft suede field. “No one ever accused the south of cornering the market on intelligence. Or enlightened attitudes towards France, for that matter.”

“Uh—” Jeter began.

Topher faced him.

“Ah, yes, the local Barney. Be a dear, will you, and go fetch us some iced frappuccino? I prefer mine mocha. Zorn? Gertrude?”

Gertrude opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by Zorn, who said, “No thank you” and stooped farther into the basement to have a look at the other body.

Jeter puffed out his chest.

“Just who do you think you are? No unauthorized personnel are allowed down here. Can’t you see this is a crime scene?”

Topher waved him off, grimacing in concentration at the hole in the corpse’s head.

“Gertrude? Please see to the lights.”

Gertrude clapped and ran to the stairs, pointing at Zorn

“Ha ha.”

Topher slid a long, shiny, metal instrument from the case. There was a tiny procuring mouth at one end and a complicated trigger at the other. He sat a pair of glasses on his nose, withdrew a little flashlight from his pocket, and leaned over the corpse, his tongue poking out between his teeth.

“Hey!” Jeter protested.

Topher ignored him.

“Hey!”

“This one’s naked, too,” Zorn observed.

Topher pushed the instrument around.

“Ah, yes.”

Zorn put his hands under the corpse, preparing to flip it.

“Has anyone had a look under it?”

“Don’t touch that!” Jeter barked, startling Zorn, who stood straight up and banged the back of his head on the beams above. Dust and dirt sifted and pattered all over the body.

“Zorn!” Topher snarled. “Please try not to contaminate the crime scene!”

Footsteps thundered overhead and on the stairs, and more dust and dirt sifted into the basement, and then Gertrude appeared holding a candle and a box of matches.

Topher frowned.

“Candles, Gertrude. Really?”

“I told you. Zorn broke all of the lights.”

Jeter took out his gun.

“Godammit, all of you freeze!”

Zorn laughed and resumed his work, and Jeter, who’d never experienced that kind of response, turned the gun on Gertrude.

“Put that thing away,” Gertrude said.

Topher sighed and turned his attention back to the empty skull, trying to ignore the Barney in the corner who was now shouting into his cell phone, pausing only to shout at Zorn, who shouted back. Then Gertrude joined the shouting, though he wasn’t sure why and couldn’t decide who to shout at or what to say, so he just started yelling, “I’ll break your neck! I’ll stab your guts!”

In a moment their voices faded into the background. All of his attention was pinpointed on the empty cavity before him. He was close enough now that he could smell the dead man’s cologne. He might have kissed his forehead, had there been any forehead left to kiss. The inside of his skull did indeed appear to have been scooped out like a pumpkin, but it was no spoon that performed the scooping.

Topher panned across the back of the skull with the light, twisting it to catch the corners. He’d long since gotten over the nausea that used to threaten the back of his throat whenever he did this. Once, in the early days, while investigating a case in an abandoned warehouse in Danville, he vomited directly into an empty head. The building had been turned into a punk rock squat by teen-aged miscreants, most of whom had gathered around their now dead friend. They all vomited, too, when they saw what happened, though thankfully not into the same opening.

Nothing really bothered him anymore. In fact, he found it hard to suppress the icy butterflies of excitement, for the sight of a human skull emptied of all brain matter no longer represented the gore and viscera of human biology, but the tantalizing yeti of mystery, the fantastic chimera of knowledge, the golden dolphin of adventure. He looked forward to it so much that he sometimes felt himself grow aroused by the promise of a new case, though at that particular moment he was more than aware of the inappropriateness and possible legal ramifications of such stimulation. And while intellectually he had no aversion to the idea of n*********a, he was certainly aware of the imbalance in the relationship (what if it took advantage of him?) just as he was certainly aware of the fact that he’d just used the word ‘ramification’ in referring to s*x with a corpse, “ram” reminding him of mountains and goats and curly horns and—wait a minute. The instrument had caught against something in the back of the skull.

“What’s this?”

He peered closer, deeper, striving to see. There. A sliver caught in a web of gore. He pulled the trigger ever so slightly, ever so carefully, let it close around the thing, and pulled it out, triumphant.

“Aha!” he cried, holding it in the air. He twisted to show his friends, then gasped.

Four Fredericksburg police officers surrounded him, guns trained on his head. Zorn and Gertrude were on their knees, hands cuffed behind their backs.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” Topher asked.

~

The bloody fingernail sat in a clear evidence bag on Sheriff Pitts’ desk. Next to it sat a copy of The Free Lance Star. “CHINA INVADES SOUTH KOREA” the headline screamed. “United States Mobilizes Troops.” Pitts glared at the fingernail, squirming uncomfortably. He was a heavy man, possessing the build of a former linebacker gone to pot, which was ironic for two reasons: 1. he never played football, and 2. he was currently the regional champion of the Highlander Games. His specialty was the caber toss, though he also excelled in the stone put and the hammer throw. All of that flesh, seemingly loose and jowly beneath his uniform, was really a solid sheet of muscle. This only increased the embarrassment he felt at his current injury: a broken coccyx, earned two weeks before while chasing Donny Motts, a local drunk who’d stolen a cue ball and $500.00 from Spirits. He’d chased Donny all over town, somehow ending up on the roof of Sammy T’s, where they both slipped and skidded over the awning and landed in the middle of Caroline Street, Donny on his shoulder, Pitts on his ass.

“And he said they were what?” Pitts growled.

Deputy Jeter sat on the other side of the desk, fidgeting. It was he who deposited the evidence bag on Pitts’ desk, he who had to explain how he allowed his own crime scene to be contaminated, he who stammered, with as straight a face as possible, the words, “Zombie hunters, sir” as a response to his boss’s question.

“Zombie hunters?”

“Yes, sir. Among other things.”

“Other things?”

“Yes, sir. Here. He gave me their card.”

Jeter placed a business card on the desk between them. It was the nicest card he had ever seen. On one side was printed this:

On the other, this:

Pitts picked it up and read it with what could only be described as an incredulous frown. Then he tossed it on his desk, folded his hands over his solid belly. What kind of kook plants a bloody fingernail in the skull of a corpse?