Tracker's Travail

The Zombie Apocalypse-2

“You say these idiots ransacked your crime scene?”

Jeter gulped.

“Well, yes. Sir. They kinda just showed up. I thought they were from the lab, and before I knew it they were moving the bodies, and the one in the white suit stuck a metal thing inside one of ‘em and came up with that.” He pointed at the bloody fingernail in the evidence bag.

Pitts breathed out of his nose.

“Bring these morons to me.”

He heard Topher a full minute before he saw him.

“. . . about bloody time you retrieved us from that hell hole!” he shouted from the hallway.

“Topher, please.”

“No, I will not ‘please’, Gertrude. And thank you very much! I’m unaccustomed to this kind of treatment. Bars on the windows, a single toilet in the corner. How do they expect me to contemplate the night in such primitive surroundings!”

The voices stopped right outside Pitts’ door.

“I don’t believe this is the kind of situation in which one can properly mull over the esoteric qualities of the evening.”

“But it is the kind of situation in which someone evacuates his bowels in front of his peers and enemies, no matter how egregious the effluvia.”

“Shut up!” Jeter barked.

“You shut up!”

The door opened, and Pitts saw a medium-sized man in a ridiculous white, linen suit, with a tan Panama hat clapped on his head. Behind him stood two giants dressed in furs: fur jackets, fur pants, fur boots. The man in linen stepped hurriedly into the room, clearly judging the decor. The other two had to duck to enter, and when they were all inside there was very little room for them to do much of anything else other than stand.

One of them said, “That’s not the point, Topher.”

“No, it is the point, Zorn. I, unlike Gertrude’s beloved Thoreau, view any visit to prison as an assault upon my person. I will not, like Gertrude’s illustrious pencil-maker, upon release from said assault upon my person, join a huckleberry party and repair my shoe.”

“I still don’t see your point.”

“My point is that if I choose to muse upon anything anywhere at any time, I should not be hindered from doing so by some iron symbol of tyranny, or the rancid stench of feces.”

“Mr. Bill,” Pitts said.

Topher held up a finger.

“I will not be hindered—”

“Mr. Bill!”

Topher shook his finger.

“I will not—”

Pitts grabbed the wiggling digit and bent it back. Topher cried out and sank to his knees.

“You listening now?” Pitts said.

Zorn’s eyes bulged. Gertrude held his own finger in sympathy. Topher pressed his lips together and nodded.

“Good. I’m going to let go of your finger, okay?”

Topher nodded again.

“And when I let go of your finger, you’re going to do two things. Would you like to know what those two things are?”

“Yes,” Topher squeaked.

“You’re gonna sit down. And shut. The f**k. Up.”

He released Topher’s finger and leaned back in his chair.

Topher slid up into one of the three chairs on the other side of the desk. Pitts eyed Zorn and Gertrude, who quickly scuttled into the other two, the latter shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

“Deputy,” Pitts said. “I’ll handle this from here.”

“How dare you,” Topher grumbled as the door shut “My hexing hand is permanently damaged.”

“Hexing hand?”

Topher threw up his arms in disbelief.

“Yes. My hexing hand.”

Pitts frowned.

“They’ll be none of that here.”

“Says the expert on the supernatural.”

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?”

“Just don’t come looking for me the next time you need a vampire heart staked or a squid monster red-eyed.”

Pitts rolled his eyes.

“Lord Jesus.” He picked up the evidence bag containing the bloody fingernail and shoved it at the trio opposite him. “What the hell’s this?”

Topher said, “A bloody fingernail, of course.”

“Did you plant this in that victim?”

“What?” Topher looked to Zorn and Gertrude for help.

“Er,” Zorn coughed. “We’re Trackers. Suggesting that we planted evidence is an insult.”

“Unless one were Reinholdt Smythe-Webly,” Gertrude said. “Remember the time he set that pumpkin on fire and shot it through that poor old woman’s window?”

“Mmm. Tried to tell her she had a poltergeist. Dropped a hand-grenade in her parlor.”

Gertrude pointed at Pitts. “Now Reinholdt. He’s a fraud.” “Wouldn’t trust him with a dead kitten.”

Topher reached for the evidence bag, but Pitts snatched it away.

“Sheriff Pitts, I’ll try to explain this without sounding too crazy,” Topher said. “That fingernail is broken off of a Class IV Zombie. Judging by the state of those poor young men, you’ve got a pretty nasty one on your hands.”

“Or two pretty nasty ones,” Zorn corrected.

Pitts shook his head.

“Smythe-Webly? Class IV Zombie?”

“Well,” Topher said. “He’s no Jerry Irons, granted, but I wouldn’t go so far as to rank him among the filth of the supernatural.”

“Mr. Bill. You just interfered with a criminal investigation.”

Topher leaned forward. “You’ve got a lethal flesh grinder loose in your city. And a possible infestation under 312 Hawke Street. You better act soon before it turns into an all-out attack.”

“You’re aware that tampering with evidence is a felony?”

“Mr. Pitts. Sheriff. Please. If you don’t allow me to eradicate the meatcicle that is probably at the moment wandering around your fair town, a trumped-up felony charge will be the least of both our worries.”

“Jesus H. Christ on a crutch. You’re as crazy as a s**t-house rat.”

“A s**t-house rat?”

Zorn leaned toward Gertrude.

“Rats live in houses made of s**t?”

“Oh yes. Positively filthy creatures, them.”

Pitts adjusted himself on his donut. He breathed out of his nose.

“I know what you are. I’ve seen your kind before. Grifters. Travelers. Some other horseshit title you give yourselves to feel important. But I got one name and one name only for piss-ants like you.”

“Oh!” Gertrude piped. “Is this a regional title?” He beamed at Zorn. “You know how I love colloquialism.”

“In Massachusetts they call us Spookers,” Zorn said.

“Oh yeah? Here in Fredericksburg we got a special title for people like you.” Zorn and Gertrude waited, eager and expectant. “s**t stains.”

The smiles disappeared.

“That’s right. s**t stains. You can’t come into my town, jilt a few gullible old ladies out of their savings by getting rid of some imaginary spooks you cooked up for them. Bang on a few pots. Have your friends moan in the basement. Call it what you want, but you’re all the same in my book. Frauds. And fraud is a felony.”

Topher glared.

Pitts said, “I’m going to tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to run your name through our database here. See, it’s a national database. And if you’re wanted for anything, and my gut tells me you’re wanted on a load of charges, then I’ve got you. And you’re screwed. And you’re going to prison. Not jail. Prison.”

Topher snickered.

“We’ve seen worse.”

“I doubt it.”

Pitts grunted as he pushed his chair away from his desk and rolled towards the computer behind him. Zorn shot Topher a panicked look. It had been over twenty years, but was the warrant for their escape from Raleigh’s still out? Had Stoneman even issued one?

“You won’t find anything,” Topher said.

Pitts put a pair of glasses on and squinted at the monitor.

“Uh huh.”

“Maybe a traffic violation or two.” The keyboard clacked. “Just ask Bob Sewell.”

Pitts stopped typing. He turned around and peered at them over the rims of his glasses.

“Are you trying to tell me that you know Bob Sewell?”

Topher sat back, satisfied, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I’m telling you that I know Bob Sewell.”

“Sheriff Bob Sewell?”

“Of Danville, VA.”

“Bob Sewell. Bob Sewell?”

Topher spread his hands. Zorn’s terror-stricken stare remained fixed. Gertrude smiled like an i***t. Pitts swiveled in his chair. Left right. Left right. His eyes never left Topher’s.

“You’re clearly acquainted,” Topher said. “Why not give him a jingle.”

“I will. But if you expect me for one second to believe that this is anything other than a stalling tactic, that Bob Sewell would vouch for a slime ball like you, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“Vouch for me? Vouch for me? My dear Mr. Pitts. Who do you think recommended this place to us in the first place?”

Pitts stared at him long and hard. Topher couldn’t tell if he were angry or constipated. Finally the sheriff, keeping his eyes firmly fixed, reached into his upper right-hand drawer and withdrew an aged, brown, moleskin address book. He licked his thumb and flipped through it, found the number he was looking for, plucked the receiver from the cradle of the landline on his desk, and punched at the numeral pad.

“Hello?” he said after a moment. He spun all the way around so that his back was to the trio. “This is Tucker Pitts. I’m the sheriff up here in Fredericksburg. I’m doing fine, thanks. Listen, is Bob Sewell in?”

When it was clear Pitts was no longer paying attention to them, Zorn pinched Topher’s arm.

“Ouch!” Topher hissed.

“You i***t. Sheriff Sewell hates us!”

“So?”

“You told him he recommended us!”

“Not really. I said he recommended this place to us.”

“You mean after he kicked us out of Danville?”

“Now you’re thinking. Look, Sewell hates us so much that he’ll say anything to keep us out of his little city.”

Topher cut himself off as Pitts swiveled back around to face them.

“Bob! This is Tucker Pitts. I’m the sheriff up in Fredericksburg. You might not remember me, but we met down at the sensitivity training in . . . Yeah, yeah, that’s me. Everything’s going fine, thanks. Still got my fill of drunks and druggies. You know the deal. Danville still a ghost town? Not no more, huh? Well, good for you! Uh huh. Uh huh. Listen, Bob, I’m not one for beating around the bush, so I’ll get straight to the point. I’ve got this boy up here, name of Topher Bill, and—”

The shout on the other end of the line was so loud that even Gertrude winced. Jeter suddenly opened the door.

“Sheriff? We got a lot of phone calls coming in all the sudden.”

“Get out!” Pitts snapped, and Jeter nodded and shut the door.

“You have the spare van keys, right?” Topher whispered to Zorn.

“So you know him?” Pitts continued. Sewell’s voice yammered away on the other end of the line. “Uh huh. You don’t say? A sewer creature? In a public toilet?”

“One of our dirtiest jobs,” Topher said.

Zorn and Gertrude nodded solemnly.

“A swamp monster? Digging tunnels underground. Suckin’ people down through the . . . uh huh.”

“The mole-rat,” Zorn whispered.

Gertrude shuddered.

Pitts glanced up at Topher, baffled and weary.

“Well, yeah, it does sound kinda crazy. Comes highly recommended, huh? No, no need to apologize for not calling. We’re taking care of this right now. Okay. Okay, you too. Thanks for the intel.”

He set the receiver gently down in the cradle, leaned back in his chair to think.

After a moment, Topher said, “So, Monsieur Sewell confirmed?”

“Not another word,” Pitts growled. He stood up, wincing, and swept the evidence bag off his desk. Gertrude leaned forward, staring at the headline of The Free Lance Star.

“Oh dear,” he said. “Look at that.”

Pitts buckled his utility belt.

“We’re taking a ride over to Hawke Street. You’re going to explain this happy horseshit to me.”

Topher stood up, too, ready and eager.

“I will explain the happy horseshit until the cows come home.”

~

Pitts drove through the streets of Fredericksburg squirming like a cat with a hernia. He moseyed down Route 1, then took a right on Stafford and wandered around the streets of College Heights, eyes constantly scanning the tree-lined sidewalks. He turned onto College and headed to William, passing duPont and Secobeck. Topher sat in the passenger seat, counting the money in his wallet, eager to pick a fight if even one dollar was missing. Zorn and Gertrude hulked in the back, staring gloomily out the windows. The rearview was so filled with their heads and hair that Pitts didn’t even bother to look in it. Jeter followed in his own cruiser. The radio crackled with dispatch calls, and Pitts turned it up a little.