Necropolis PD

by Nathan Sumsion

  When I first found out Marsh was a cop, I thought that meant I could appeal to his sense of justice and get some degree of protection. I quickly learned the folly of that. His job is to protect the city and, fair or not, protect it from the likes of me. Protect it from the living.

  I’m the sole living person in a town full of dead things who, up until now, unanimously wanted me dead or gone. They wanted me lost or consumed or forgotten. And now I’m being told to stay. Earlier, I thought my options were death or being tossed down some dark hole for eternity. This, whatever this is, I don’t understand. I’m reluctant to trust the near-crippling sense of relief that washes over me at the knowledge that I’m not going to be killed. I didn’t realize how sure I was that my death was the night’s only possible outcome.

  My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I close it, then try again. Considering my other option is death, I’m going to take his offer. But I definitely feel the hooks sinking in. As Amber would say, “Nothing is free, Jake. Look for the price tag on everything that comes your way.” At the time, I’d accused her of being overly cynical. Maybe I was just overly optimistic. There’s more to this offer than I can figure out now. There has to be.

  “Why?” I finally manage. “What did you call it? Necropolis PD? A police officer? I’m no cop. I don’t know the first thing about how to be one. I mean, cops, they have skills. They’re tough. Me? I can’t.”

  Marsh’s hand snakes out so fast I almost don’t see it. He grabs my wrist, painfully crushing it, pressing one finger on the vein there. “You got a pulse?” He asks me, looking amused at my struggle to break free.

  “Yes! I said yes,” I stammer, wincing in pain. I’m trying to pull back, but it’s like moving a mountain.

  His other fist thumps down on the table, and he lets me go. I manage not to jump this time. Barely. I scoot as far away from him as the crowded booth with allow. “Then you’re one up on everyone else here,” he says.

  “What does that even mean? What good is that?”

  “The captain asked for you specifically. We’ve got a problem, and we need your help.”

  “What kind of problem can I possibly help out with?”

  My arm hurts.

  He shrugs. “It’s something we’ve never seen before. The fact that you’re living will give you a unique perspective on things. For as long as you last.”

  “But—”

  “Kid, I’m trying to help you out here. I’ve got a soft spot for you.”

  I stare in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? I’ve barely survived these past few weeks!”

  He chuckles at this.

  “Exactly. Imagine if I didn’t like you.”

  Marsh leans over and yanks the talisman painfully against my neck, snapping the twine. “You’re not going to need that any more. But if I were you, I’d put that badge on pretty quick.”

  He scoots out of the booth and stands up. Towering next to the table, he blocks out all the light coming from behind him. All I can see of him now is the twinkle in his good eye. I hastily grab the badge and put it in my pocket.

  “C’mon. Let’s go,” he says.

  “What? Where?”

  “Enough with the questions, already! Just follow me.”

  He puts his hand on my shoulder and steers me out the door. Whether I want to or not, I’m going with him.

  Chapter 4

  Marsh guides me to a section of the city I’ve never seen before. My thoughts are a swirling vortex of confusion. A police officer? For a bunch of dead people?

  My thoughts are in such a state that I don’t even pay attention to where we are going; I just let Marsh steer us through the crowds. We can’t have walked more than a couple of blocks when Marsh stops in front of a seemingly empty storefront. Like most of the buildings here, it looks abandoned and on the verge of collapse. Bricks are missing, walls sag, grime and graffiti cover most of the façade. The windows are more-or-less intact, but newspapers are taped over the inside of the panes, blocking our view of what lies within. He mumbles a few words, inaudible to me even though I’m only a few feet from him, and I hear the door unlock. Did he just open a door by talking to it? He swings the door open, and I follow him in.

  Paint cans, scaffolding, and garbage line the floor along the walls of the room. There’s something in the middle of the dust-covered floor, hidden underneath a tarp. The gloom in here is too dark for me to see any details.

  Marsh turns a switch on the wall like a key, and a pair of gaslights on the walls slowly illuminate the room. The tarp on the floor looks like it’s covering something the size of a body.

  My suspicions are confirmed when Marsh pulls the tarp aside. A dead person. I have no concept of how old they might be. It could be days, weeks, or years. To me, they’re simply dead, so I don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking for. Marsh just stares at me expectantly.

  I lean closer to the body. Long white hair sticks out wildly from the head. If it weren’t for the clothes, I wouldn’t even be able to tell if the body was a male or female. Since it’s wearing a suit and tie, I’m going to guess male. And up close, he smells nothing like roses.

  There appear to be burn marks around the eye sockets. The eyes are missing, but given how long the body may have been laying here, I have no idea if that’s significant or not. Was that how the person was killed? Something burned their eyes out? Am I supposed to know who this is?

  “I don’t . . . What am I looking at?”

  Marsh’s shoulders slump, like he’d been expecting me to utter some revelation that was going to break the case wide open.

  “For crying out loud, Green. It’s a corpse! Some detective you’re going to be.”

  “Yeah, it’s a corpse. So what?”

  He shakes his head sadly. “Green. It’s. A. Corpse. Don’t you get it? We need your help to solve a murder.”

  Finally, it clicks. A murder in a city of the dead. Where people can’t die.

  As if things couldn’t get any weirder.

  An hour later, I still barely understand what’s going on, or what Marsh expects of me. We’re back at Warner’s. My table’s open, and I sit down, but Marsh doesn’t move to join me.

  “I’ll come pick you up after dinner tomorrow. Night shift. Be ready. It’ll be fun.”

  “Wait! I don’t understand this. You’ve got to answer some more questions for me!”

  He sneers, amused. “I don’t gotta do nothing, kid. Just because I have a soft spot for you doesn’t mean I want to be partnered with you every night. The captain wants you. I don’t. You annoy the crap about of me, but you’re good for a few laughs. Play your cards right, I might not end up killing you. Be patient. Be ready. Tomorrow.”

  “But . . .” I try. Marsh just ignores me. He lumbers away, the mass of Warner’s clientele parting in front of him as he goes. He towers over everyone here, not just me. Even dead as the rest of the crowd is, they’re still wary of him. Conversations quiet as he nears and tentatively pick up again after he’s gone. Terrors of the night, creatures from humanity’s nightmares, scattering out of the way in fear of the man who is going to be working alongside me. Great. I glance down to the gun in my hands.

  A gun? What good is that? Everyone here is already dead. Every person I’ve met here is literally a corpse walking around, animated by who knows what magic or witchcraft or science or sheer stubbornness. I would call them zombies if Marsh hadn’t knocked me senseless the first time I referred to him as one. Zombies are mindless, shambling meatsacks that shuffle around trying to eat flesh or brains. The people, he was very clear on that, here are alert, intelligent, conscious. Well, OK, maybe just conscious. They talk and sometimes carry conversations. Not what I would expect from zombies or walking corpses I’ve seen in movies although I’m pretty sure eating me isn’t entirely off the table. I’ll occasionally catch a few of them sizing me up. Marsh�
��s constant presence is probably all that’s kept them away. Or the talisman. Which I don’t have anymore.

  Death could not hold them down. What good is a gun going to do? No matter how huge a gun it is. It’s heavy, like a cinderblock. It looks comically large in my hand. The muzzle is about six inches in diameter. What kind of bullets does it take? I realize I’m staring down the barrel to try and see what’s inside. Cautiously, I set it back down. I could blow my head off before I learn how to use it.

  It could be my imagination, but the crowd now seems to be giving me even more clearance than before. A few are staring at me, dead eyes in dead faces looking at me curiously, whispering to each other. I remember having dreams like this, surrounded by zombies with no escape. Trying to dodge grasping hands before they tore me apart, before they dismembered me into a bloody stew as they choked down my body. Fortunately, it doesn’t go like that. They stare. They whisper. They slug back a few drinks. Then they turn back to what they were doing and ignore me again.

  I swallow nervously and pull the badge out of my pocket. It’s a gold shield nestled inside a black leather wallet. Real gold? No idea. There’s a star inside the shield and a faded engraving of a skull in the center, though there are no words or names. It looks ancient. The surface looks like it was hammered by hand, not machine. It tingles strangely when I touch it, like static electricity, similar to how the talisman felt, but stronger. I feel a shiver in my spine. I slide it away. Knowing my luck, it’s probably radioactive.

  It seems he’s telling the truth. I sigh, and I’m surprised to realize a weight of some sort has been lifted from me.

  They aren’t going to kill me.

  I really thought they would. When I saw Marsh tonight, I thought he was going to be the last thing I ever saw. Tears form in the corners of my eyes, and I try and keep them down.

  I found my way to their hidden city, their warren of forgotten streets and abandoned buildings, their refuge where they are safe from the living world. I was sure they would just kill me to protect their secret. Would killing me make me one of them? Or would I just be dumped in a ditch and forgotten? Or God forbid, would someone eat me? Apparently, they have something different in mind for me.

  I wait for my hands to stop shaking. I’m a police officer now. Laughter escapes my lips, sudden and incredulous. I can’t help it; the situation is just so surreal. Zombies surrounding me is one thing, ghouls, whatever. I can accept that. But there’s no way I can believe I’m a police officer.

  Wait a minute. I have a gun now, a possible means of escape. Maybe a shot from this hand cannon will knock a few people down, clear a path to the door, or at least through a window. I could make it out of the building, get a head start.

  But I’m pretty sure Marsh wouldn’t give me a way out of here. No, whatever weapon he’s given me isn’t going to be enough to get home on my own. If anything, he’s watching me, measuring my responses, seeing what I do with my newfound options.

  I want to scream. Do I try and escape? It’s tempting. I want to go home. I glance at the door, thinking. Calculating. But ultimately, I know it’s futile, a wish I can’t fulfill.

  The risk is too much. I just don’t know enough yet to understand the ramifications of my decisions. What would happen? What punishment would I be facing if I failed? Would I be putting anyone else in danger? Do they know about Amber or my family?

  I realize I’ve been standing by my table, holding the gun down at my side, staring at the door. I’m getting more glances now. Some nervous. Skittish.

  I grab my suit coat and sling it over my arm, putting the gun out of sight. No one is looking directly at me, everyone carefully avoids my eyes, but I know I’m the center of attention. As I make my way to the door, the crowd parts for me as quickly as it parted for Marsh. The reasons are different though. In my case, they’re probably worried I’m contagious, like they’ll catch a case of breathing.

  What did he mean that the captain asked for me? How could I possibly help them with anything? Solve a murder? What am I supposed to do?

  I stare at the walking, shuffling corpses surrounding me. The words they speak dwindle as I get near. The wave of whispering builds at my back as I pass, pushing me to the door. I try not to run. Try not to sweat. I try in any way not to just freak the hell out and start screaming.

  Three months ago . . .

  He is fast, this bastard I’m chasing. My thoughts keep returning to that poor woman, dying while this guy stole her valuables, her purse worth more to him than her life.

  I can’t let him get away with it. I don’t want to try and fight him; I just want to see where he goes so I can tell the police later, get a good look at him, so I can give a description.

  He doesn’t even try to lose me. He never looks back over his shoulder; he just runs. He hops over chain link fences, runs down still streets, the lights inside a house here or there turning on as people around us wake up to a new day.

  I manage to keep him in sight. He plunges straight through a cedar fence, exploding into someone’s backyard. I run through the hole he leaves behind just in time to see the German Shepherd running off the back porch towards me. On the far side of the yard, the man vaults over the fence. I awkwardly climb over the top, falling into the yard just as the dog slams into the wooden planks in a snarling fury.

  Is he on drugs? What kind of maniac runs through a wooden fence?

  I get to my feet, but I can’t see the man I am chasing. I climb over the far fence and am at the end of the street. The road is a dead end, perpendicular to a creek about eight feet across. I look frantically around and notice the jogging trail running alongside the water, nearly hidden by the overgrown weeds.

  It is darker here. He has to be somewhere. I stand on the trail, looking up one way and then the other. Nothing. To my left, the creek stretches straight and even, leading to a short bridge several blocks off. I look to the right and see a bridge closer, taller, but equally devoid of people.

  Frogs croak off to my left, some ways off, loud and insistent. I hear nothing from my right. Desperate, I set off running to my right, hoping they were scared into silence by the passage of the man I am chasing.

  The path leads up to the bridge. The bridge isn’t much of anything, with a waist-high stone railing on either side. As I approach it from the side, I can see it is tall enough to stand underneath, and there is a concrete platform beneath it. On the far side of the bridge, the jogging path turns from a dirt track to a paved one.

  Empty.

  He had to have come this way.

  That’s when I hear it. The creak of rusted hinges from below the bridge.

  I lean out over the edge of the overgrown grass and see a rocky bank along the creek hidden by the long weeds. It runs under the bridge, unlike the path which led me up top.

  I run back down the path a bit and drop down over the side with the weeds, landing on the rocks a couple feet below. I move quickly under the bridge.

  There is a door there, underneath the bridge. One of the two bulbs overhead is broken, but I can still make out some details. It is a service entrance of some kind, leading into the sewers. It looks like it hasn’t been used any time in the past decade.

  I hesitate as I walk up to the door. It is dented and dirty, much of the paint missing or flaking off onto the ground. I have no idea what I’ll find behind it. If this is where that maniac is hiding, I don’t want to stumble into him. But if it leads somewhere, I need to know where. Either way, surely it’ll be locked. I reach out and grab the handle.

  It opens, and I hear the same telltale squeak I heard moments before. I open it a crack and peer inside. The room beyond the door is a nightmare. A few steps lead down to a concrete room holding a massive machine of some kind hooked to ductwork going into a wall. There’s a large grate on the far wall covering a sewer tunnel, and it’s pulled back, leaving a gap wide enough to squeeze through. The t
unnel beyond stretches into darkness, lit only by occasional dim lights. A stack of old pallets about four feet high is leaning against the machine, with other trash scattered around the base.

  My feet seem to move of their own accord, pulling me into the room. I can’t be seeing what my brain is telling me is in front of me.

  To the side are several corpses heaped into a pile. There must be a dozen. Judging by the smell, they have been there a long time. I try not to gag. I want to find this guy, sure, but I’m not crazy. I’m out. This is as far as I’ll go. I’ll bring the cops back here, even without this guy’s description.

  I turn around to leave, and he is standing right behind me, blocking my exit. His eyes glow faintly in the gloom of the room. Blood covers his mouth, neck, and chest. His skin is old, wrinkled, his gray hair a tangled mess. Teeth too long to be contained in his mouth still have chunks of flesh clinging to them. I can smell the rot on his breath, the coppery tang of blood. His fingernails, blood-soaked and long, sit like daggers on the end of fingers already too much like knives.

  This is the first moment I realize this thing I’ve been chasing isn’t human.

  My scream barely escapes before he is on me. He tries to tackle me, land on top of me, but I manage to pivot, tossing him to the side. I break for the door, making it up two stairs before he grabs the collar of my shirt, his nails digging painfully into my neck, and he yanks me back, hurling me across the room. I crash into the pallets, shattering several, feeling sharp points dig into my back as the mess cascades down over me.

  I suck in a ragged breath, trying to tell which way is up.

  “How did you follow me here?” he asks, his voice like nothing I have ever heard before. It’s an accent I can’t place. It is both loud and a whisper at the same time, full of fury, hammering my brain and tickling my ears. My skin breaks into gooseflesh.