Precinct 13

by Tate Hallaway

  It looked like whatever argument they might have hadn’t quite started yet. Devon slouched against the wall, his arms crossed defensively in front of his chest. His gaze focused on his shoes.

  Meanwhile, Stone watched him. Her face was alert, but otherwise completely expressionless. She could be a statue. She hardly blinked or even seemed to breathe.

  “Hiya,” I said cheerfully.

  Devon pushed off the wall and cracked his knuckles noisily. “I’m looking forward to really letting loose,” he said.

  “Good,” I said, opening up and showing them both inside. “I want to see what you’ve got.”

  If the morning hadn’t been so interrupted, I would have had coffee and donuts ready for them both. I tended to really enjoy these sorts of things. I opened the curtain in front of the first splatter booth with a “Ta-da!”

  I hoped they were as impressed as I was with my work. I had the experiment set up to as closely approximate the experience of walking up to a cow and bashing it over the head as I could. That meant, in Devon’s case, he’d be just slightly taller than eye to eye with the beast. Also, to punch it down, they’d have to displace the weight of an upright cow. I had a bunch of heads ready to attach to my cow contraption.

  “Okay,” I said, after handing each protective clothing. “Let her rip.”

  I let Devon do whatever came naturally to him the first time. As I expected, he punched nearly straight into the cow’s face. When I reset the rigging for Stone, she did the same thing, though with a lot more force.

  As I recalibrated and readjusted the machine, I explained what I wanted next. “I’m looking for a downward angle,” I said, pointing to the bridge of the cow’s snout. “Aimed right about here.”

  As I would have predicted, this was a bit more awkward. Devon had to jump into the air a bit, and he brought his hand down karate-chop style. Stone used an overhand double-fist that I thought showed the most promising damage.

  However, just to be a completist, once they’d finished that, I had them try with shovels. That produced the most disgusting cow head pancakes I’d ever seen in my life. The accompanying bone shattering and goo splattering nearly put me off my lunch, as well. I was suddenly grateful I hadn’t had time to fetch donuts.

  However, it was now obvious that whatever struck the cows wasn’t nearly as strong as a vampire or a golem.

  When the two cops showed up with the zombie’s body, I waved off their apologies for being so late. They’d had some kind of trouble sneaking the body in the back door. However, I left the zombie pushed into the corner for the moment, because I wanted Peterson to try bashing the cow with a shovel.

  His partner wanted a go, so I let him try, too.

  We were having so much fun that none of us noticed when the zombie got up and walked out the door.

  EIGHTEEN

  When the door swung shut, I looked up and saw the empty wheelchair. “Oh shit!”

  Not bothering to pull off my splatter apron, I ran out into the hall. The zombie had only made it a few feet. He was hampered by the modesty sheet clutched around his body like an oversized toga. His gait was floppy and weirdly out of sync, reminding me of a marionette. One bare foot slapped along the polished concrete floor.

  I stopped when I realized how slowly he was moving. The two human cops were the next out the door, hands on their guns, followed by Devon and then Stone. They skidded to a halt behind me. We all stood in a clump watching the zombie shuffle quietly toward the exit.

  “We should follow him,” Stone said, removing her splatter gear and handing it to me. She quickly closed the distance with three powerful strides. Once she caught up with him, the zombie gave her a sharp, annoyed glare and then tried to quicken his pace with a little hop. Unfazed, she walked alongside him patiently, her hands folded behind her back, like a mother with a dawdling toddler.

  “You have time to clean up and join us, I think,” Stone suggested. She watched as the zombie slipped on the edge of the sheet. He struggled, sliding on the slick concrete, until Stone finally put a hand on his elbow and bent to untangle the cloth from his pant leg.

  “Me?” I asked, looking at all the other law enforcement around me. I was sure I should really stay and examine the findings from the experiments, but I had to admit I was deeply curious about where he was going.

  “Yes,” she said in her matter-of-fact way from where she crouched at the zombie’s feet. He’d gotten his foot loose and was making a shambling forward progress of a sort. “He’s your patient.”

  They had only made it as far as the parking lot by the time I’d stored all the results in the freezers and cleaned up the biggest messes. Despite her assurances that I had plenty of time, I hurried as quickly as I could. I was out of breath by the time I caught up with Stone and her zombie charge.

  At some point, she must have taken pity on him, and rewrapped the sheet. Now it was draped over his shoulders like an overlong shawl. She also had her hand crooked like a gentleman, and the zombie clutched it for support.

  “Where’s Devon and the others?” I asked.

  “I sent Peterson and Hanson to report this new development to Spenser. Devon,” she said with a shrug, “is not my responsibility.”

  I suspected that meant they’d finally had whatever argument had been brewing outside the morgue. Falling into step beside Stone and the zombie, I took in a deep breath. The sun shone warmly on my face. Snowmelt had darkened the sidewalks. Beyond the parking lot, patches of muddy grass were visible in the expanse of the capitol’s lawn. Geese honked their noisy return, flying in a lopsided V pattern overhead.

  “Why do you and Devon fight so much?” I asked as we ambled along.

  Stone helped the zombie negotiate the curb. “We have a difference of opinion as to whether or not kabbalah is maleficium.”

  “Kabbalah is the magic that made you?” I took the zombie’s other elbow when he careened in my direction. Once he was righted I let him go.

  “It is,” she said. It was warm enough that, though she wore the heavy leather, lined police jacket, it was unzipped.

  “Maleficium,” I repeated slowly, considering. “Is there a difference between that and the unnatural?”

  “No, not really,” she said. The sunlight brought out reddish highlights in her hair. She still had terribly disorganized bangs, but she’d pulled the rest back into a tight ponytail. “Maleficium is more overt in its opinion.” When I looked at her curiously, she added, “It means bad magic.”

  The zombie groaned noncommittally.

  I had a much stronger reaction. I kicked at a frozen chunk of gravel on the sidewalk. “Bullshit.”

  “No,” she said, insistently, “it really does mean that.”

  “That’s not what I’m reacting to,” I said, sending more rocks and ice flying. “I thought that everything would be okay once I found out magic was real, but it’s not, is it? I’m not the right kind of magic. That’s just awesome.”

  A bird cawed from an overhead wire. It was a cuff-wearing magpie—perhaps one of Sarah Jane’s gang. I wondered if it would report back to Jack, or if it was just making a comment of its own.

  Stone, meanwhile, had nothing to say, no words of comfort or reassurances that it was no big deal to be one of the unnatural ones.

  The zombie, however, reached out and gave my hand a squeeze. I looked into his clouded eyes and wondered why I had his sympathy. Did he simply feel badly that I was angry at this discovery? Or, did he agree that there was an unfair bias against those classified as unnatural? Given that he was the victim of unnatural magic, I suspected the former, which just made me angrier.

  I didn’t want a zombie’s pity.

  Because, despite how people reacted to those who were labeled unnatural, I still believed what Jack told me. Where my magic came from wasn’t nearly as important as what I did with it.

  Stone studiously avoided looking at me, which suited me just fine—I would have glared at her, anyway. I began to understand Devon’s feud w
ith her. She was so desperate to be one of the “good” guys, trying to pass as one of them. I could see why he took every opportunity to poke her about it.

  The zombie continued to lead us forward. We made our ambling way down a shop-lined street. A man in his mid-forties sat on a rocking chair in front of a place selling antiques. He smoked a pipe, and nodded to us as we passed. Stone gave him the small-town cop nod. I wished him a good afternoon. The zombie moaned politely.

  He took no further notice of us, despite the fact that the zombie’s funeral suit sagged due to the split up the back and he was dragging a dirty sheet behind him.

  Unfortunately, the zombie seemed to be leading us back to Big Tom’s. I wasn’t sure if we should let him go back, considering how upset the police chief had been at the idea of zombies there. I looked to Stone. “Should we let him go to the diner if he wants?”

  She nodded. “If he’s drawn here, there’s a reason.”

  “I’m not so sure,” I said. “He told me he’s a red herring.”

  I may have actually surprised Stone. She didn’t quite sputter, but there was real emotion behind her question. “He what?”

  “When he was dead…er, more dead, he spoke to me.”

  The zombie’s expression stayed vacant, but I thought I sensed him leaning toward us, as though listening intently. It made me wonder if the person who reanimated him was doing the same.

  “Zombies can’t talk,” Stone said resolutely. Planting her hands on her hips, she paused. “Their mouths are sewn shut.”

  “I know that,” I said. “It was very garbled, but he told me he was a distraction—at least that’s what I assume he meant by ‘red herring.’ I thought, at first, that he was far too helpful to be telling the truth, but now I wonder if he was desperately trying to give me information before the necromancer took control again.”

  When I checked to see if the zombie was still interested in our conversation, I noticed that he’d stopped his slow, plodding progress. The modesty sheet slipped from his fingers. It slid off his shoulders into a heap on the sidewalk.

  I didn’t have a chance to warn Stone before the zombie leaped forward in an attack.

  Not that it mattered much. She saw him coming and raised her arm in a block. Though she did little more than move her fist a few inches, the power of the blow sent the zombie flying backward into the bakery window. He bounced against the glass hard enough that I heard the impact of the back of his skull.

  I winced, but the zombie didn’t.

  He recovered quickly and pounced forward again. This time his arms led the charge, flailing wildly. Stone did some kind of smooth martial arts move that had him stumbling past her.

  Unfortunately, that put him right in front of me.

  Hands closed around my throat. Though his skin had the velvet softness of old age, plenty of power crushed down on my larynx. I would have screamed if I could get any air. His face, inches from mine, was slack and empty of any expression. The mortuary makeup was starkly garish in the bright sunlight.

  I struggled against his grip. Stars began shooting around the edges of my vision. Just as I was sure I’d pass out, I felt Stone coming up behind me. She pried his hands from my throat.

  I took in a deep, shuddering breath. He reared back to head-butt me, but I managed to duck out from under Stone’s arms. Awkwardly, I stumbled to my feet, still clutching my bruised throat.

  “Run,” Stone said calmly. “The problem with zombies is that they’re relentless.”

  “But what about you?” I gasped.

  She still gripped his wrists, and held him, literally at arm’s length. He began kicking at her shins. “I’ll be okay. He’s the problem. I don’t want to damage him,” she said. I heard a popping as his shoulders dislocated as he struggled. “Damn it. I’m going to need backup. The precinct isn’t far away. Run.”

  Even though I had no sense of which way to go, I took off. I felt a little cowardly leaving her there, but it seemed pretty obvious by now that Stone was impervious to damage. I, however, was a liability. My throat ached. I would be sporting serious bruises tomorrow to match the burn mark on my cheek.

  I ran until I was several blocks away. Out of breath, I fished my phone out of my pocket. Finding Jones’s number on my recently dialed list, I punched SEND. He answered right away. “Twice in one day, Connor. More good news?”

  “I wish,” I said between gasps. I managed to tell him that Stone was holding off the zombie near Big Tom’s. He seemed ready to hang up, but I held him on the line. “Be careful. It’s a distraction for something, I’m sure of it.”

  “Witch instinct?”

  Was that even a thing? “No, the zombie told me himself.”

  “When he was dead?”

  “Yeah, it seems I can talk to dead people.”

  I was sure Jones would get all tight-lipped and snarky and say something about how this was proof positive that I was an evil witch of galactic proportions. He surprised me by asking, “How long have you been able to do this?”

  “Since I got my new tattoo,” I said, though I wondered at the truth of that. Was it that the tattoo gave me that power, or did all the magic surrounding me the past few days wake up a latent talent of mine?

  Jones apparently had no comment or criticism. “I’ll keep my eyes open. You be careful and get back here as soon as you can.”

  He hung up before I could ask him for directions.

  I was lost. I’d run out of downtown a couple of blocks ago, and when I tried to double back the way I thought I’d come, I must have gotten even more turned around. When I called Jones, it rolled directly into voice mail. Though Jack said he’d left me his phone number, I couldn’t find it anywhere. I leaned against someone’s retaining wall and tried my GPS app again.

  It seemed to think I was in Iowa.

  Luckily, the weather was nice and the entire town couldn’t be any bigger than thirteen square miles. When I heard a caw overhead, I thought maybe Sarah Jane was coming to my rescue. Turned out it was a plain old crow.

  Disappointed, I picked a random direction and headed out.

  Sweat prickled under my armpits by the time I came to an intersection that looked promising. There was a church on one corner, a bar kitty-corner, and a funeral home across the street. The church was classic: white-painted slats and a tall steeple. The marquee in front told me that the Reverend Iverson would be preaching at 8:00 and 11:00 on Sundays, and reminded me that Jesus saves. The bar, which had the clever name of Hole in the Wall, had a sign in the window promising a different kind of saving: TWO FOR ONE AT HAPPY HOUR. The door to the bar was propped open slightly, and I could smell stale beer as I passed.

  The funeral home was actually one of the nicer ones I’d seen. It was an old house, a stately Victorian, painted white as though to match the church. It had a turret and a large portico over a driveway, probably originally used for receiving carriages. The name on the front read: MILLER. What really caught my attention, however, was the hearse parked there, as if ready to receive a coffin in a few hours.

  Though it was true that on an average day, worldwide, 10.8 people died per second, that number reduced radically the smaller the population pool. I could imagine that one to two people might die every day here, depending on the median age of Pierre. Still, what were the odds that someone other than our zombie was having a funeral today?

  Could this be the funeral home that the zombie had come from? The easiest way to find out was to go online. At least my phone managed to pull up the Capitol Times. I checked the obituaries. Many of the online entries were frustratingly sparse—no pictures and only the barest information about when memorials would be held. Only a couple mentioned visitations at funeral homes and none listed for today or last night at Miller’s.

  This was probably a dead end. Still, the presence of the hearse kept niggling at me.

  I should check it out.

  I tried Jones, but got voice mail again. I left him a message telling him that I was followi
ng a hunch at the Miller Funeral Home. Just as a precaution I read the cross-street signs and reminded him that I was utterly and hopelessly lost.

  And on my own.

  Standing by the church sign, I wavered in my resolve about going in alone. I had just decided it was too risky when a young woman came out the front door of the funeral home. Blond and petite, she had a broom in her hand. She had on a thick wool sweater and jeans, a knit scarf wound around her neck, and matching thin gloves on her hands. She began sweeping the floor of the open-air porch. When she noticed me, she gave a little wave of hello. “Beautiful weather, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, very,” I said, feeling emboldened to cross the street and walk up the front steps to join her on the porch. “Are you expecting business today?” I gestured at the hearse with my thumb.

  Her smile faltered. It took me a second to realize that she must have noticed the snake on the back of my hand. Her hands gripped the broom handle tighter. I anticipated the sudden swing, but not the muttered Italian or Latin that came with it. I was similarly unprepared for the explosion of light before everything went dark.

  NINETEEN

  I woke up in the dark. At first, I thought that I’d been dreaming. After all, it was warm and sort of comfortable with the silk pillow under my head and velvet all around. When I tried to roll over to go back to sleep, however, I couldn’t. The space was too small to do it easily.

  I was in a coffin.

  I could only pray that I wasn’t already buried.

  I felt my pockets frantically. My phone was still there. I pulled it out. The light of the display showed the white cloth of a much-too-close ceiling. I closed my eyes when I felt myself hyperventilating. Panicking was the worst thing I could do. I touch-dialed Valentine’s number from memory. The silence of the lack of signal was loud in the confined space. Even though I hadn’t been able to get through, I put the phone back carefully. I would try again if everything else failed.

  Pulling my elbows in, I awkwardly tried to push the lid off. I couldn’t get enough leverage. I began to inch myself over onto my stomach, with the thought that if I could get my back into it, I might have enough strength.