Necropolis PD

by Nathan Sumsion

  After several criticisms without any apparent path to improving the situation, this is where I would usually start laying on the sarcasm. Back then, it just meant not being able to mooch awesome dinners off my friend’s family, but now, my survival instinct is sounding a klaxon in my ears to keep it civil. The repercussions here could be considerably worse.

  “Yes, ma’am. Ms. Greystone, ma’am. Sorry.”

  I manage to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. Best I can do. Her scowl doesn’t change. She measures me suspiciously like she expects sarcasm, as well, but looks willing to resume talking. She starts drifting slightly to the right, and I pivot a little to keep my focus on her.

  She folds her arms and looks at me down her nose, which is no easy feat when she is shorter than I am. “As I said, I am your liaison with the police department. I have worked in this capacity for the past sixty years. I am one of the senior department liaisons. I know what I am doing. I have one of the best closure ratings among the liaison pool. You may request my credentials from the captain if you feel it necessary. Just heed my directions, and you will be fine.”

  I start to take a breath to ask a question, but fortunately, I remember to not interrupt. I file it away in my brain to bring up later.

  “I will be attuned to you, beginning tomorrow. Do not abuse this privilege. I am not at your beck and call, and you will be wise to remember that. I will not run your errands, and I will not indulge frivolous requests. I will not tolerate demeaning comments regarding my corporeal state. I will not respond to you outside of working hours unless it is an absolute emergency.

  “Are we clear?”

  Evidently, one advantage of being dead is you don’t have to pause for breath. I wisely keep that observation to myself too.

  I take a step away from the chair, moving closer to her to show a false sense of my comfort with her. Since she doesn’t pose any immediate threat, my curiosity is taking over. I really can see right through her, though details are distorted a little, hazy. I can’t see inside her; I don’t see her brain or anything. But being closer to her, I can see individual hairs, all of which are perfectly in place, freckles on her skin, eyelashes. I swallow nervously. This is as close as I want to get. I resist the urge to reach out and try poking her.

  “May I ask a few questions, Ms. Greystone? Ma’am.”

  “If you must,” she replies, her arms still folded. She keeps a critical eye on me. I feel like another point has been tallied against me. Somehow not accepting her statement at face value is a failing in liaison partners.

  “What is a liaison?”

  She closes her eyes and pinches her nose between her fingers, the picture of long-sufferance. With her eyes closed, I take the opportunity to study her face more clearly. She has delicate features, a thin nose, narrow cheeks, deep-set eyes that bulge a little wildly when she is focused on something, but the beauty one might generally find there is marred by lines from the constant scowl she wears. Well, and the whole being able to see through her thing. “Oh dear. Exactly how much has Detective Marsh explained to you?”

  “I start tomorrow.”

  She stares at me again, waiting for me to continue. I raise my eyebrows back at her.

  “Ah. I see. You haven’t taken your oath then?”

  I give her my best blank stare.

  “You haven’t performed the Loyalty Ceremony? The Strengthening?”

  More staring.

  “Were you even told that I would be your liaison?”

  I’m getting so good at this staring thing.

  “This is highly improper. You are woefully unprepared for this responsibility. Well, then, alright. I don’t know that I’ve ever had to explain it before. A liaison is . . . It is your connection to the Police Department and its resources. I can quickly relay information between you and your superiors. I can reconnoiter. You will be able to communicate with me no matter what distance is between us. I have a catalog of information at my disposal, which means it is at your disposal.”

  “Wow. That’s awesome, Ms. Greystone.”

  She pauses. I think she’s trying to tell if I’m humoring her or being condescending to her in any way. I’m trying to make myself look as sincerely as I feel. She’s my ghostly smartphone. A smartphone with an attitude and a legitimate disdain towards me. There’s going to end up being some kind of drawback, as with everything else about this place. Like she’ll suck years off my life or drive me insane. And she’ll be able to conveniently keep tabs on me as much as anything, I’m sure. But having someone assigned to answer my questions? Awesome.

  “What I am not is your secretary,” she continues, though there’s maybe slightly less chill in the tone. Maybe. “I am not an encyclopedia to use whenever the mood hits you.”

  I deflate a little. Dammit, that is exactly what I was hoping for.

  “Just because you have a body, living though it may be, does not mean you are the senior partner in this pairing.”

  Because I have a body? What was it she said earlier? She has no tolerance for comments about her corporeal state?

  I raise my hand. She nods, sternly. OK, that might be a little more smart-ass than I need to be showing. I put my hand down.

  “Ms. Greystone, what does my having a body have to do with anything? You’ve been doing this job for sixty years, you said. Why would I act like I’m in charge?”

  Well, here’s a new one. I’ve only known Ms. Greystone a couple of minutes, but I’m pretty sure this doesn’t happen to her often. She’s speechless. Her mouth is even hanging open. Great, what did I just do?

  “Oh dear,” she says and disappears.

  Chapter 7

  It’s hours after Ms. Greystone left, and if anything, I’m more anxious than before.

  I’ve had no contact with anyone I know today, given no idea what to expect, no clue what is going on. Would Marsh find me if I left my apartment? Eventually, I stop caring. They have me under some kind of surveillance, so I’m sure they’ll track me down.

  But I don’t fare any better over at Warner’s. Even Annabelle avoids me. I sit at the bar to ask Warner a few questions, but he snarls so fiercely I’m worried he will jump the counter to get at me. He doesn’t want me scaring other customers away, so I slink back to my corner for a while before leaving.

  I wander the streets for a few hours, but I don’t find anything that holds my interest. A few times I think I see someone following me, but I can’t ever pinpoint who, where, or even if it is true. After a while, I give up and go back to my apartment. Maybe I can get some books or something. No TV to watch, no internet to troll, no news, no forums. No music to listen to. No games to play. No school classes to attend. No friends. No Amber. I don’t even have a clock to stare at. The minutes crawl by and become hours.

  Right as I begin to doze off, I get startled awake.

  “Yo, kid! Get your ass down here!” I hear Marsh’s bellow from below, and I realize this may be the first time I’ve ever looked forward to seeing him. What’s wrong with me?

  But the wait is over. Finally. I look out the window, down to the street. Marsh is at the curb in front of my building, standing next to an enormous, black horse-drawn coach. Dread rolls off the carriage in waves, poised rather than parked. A vehicle has never filled me with fear before, and I include some very sketchy food trucks on that list. A corpse I don’t recognize is sitting on a seat in the front of the coach. Even other people move away from the coach as they pass, staying on the far side of the sidewalk. I shudder. It feels like I can see the stare from those damned horses through the walls of my room. Marsh cups his hands around his mouth and yells even louder, “Shake a leg, dammit!”

  I wave that I hear him and give one last glance around my place. I guess I’m ready. I can’t believe I’m going to walk towards Marsh rather than run away from him.

  I’m wearing the best fitting of the clo
thes they gave me. It’s nearly identical to the suit I was wearing yesterday, just a slightly lighter shade of gray. I have a black, stained tie that I manage to twist and loop into something that passes for a knot. My shoes are slightly too large, made of worn black leather and thin soles, the kind that walked hundreds of miles a lifetime ago.

  I don’t generally obsess about my appearance. My hair is short enough that it only takes seconds to comb it. I try and shave, not because I want a baby-smooth face, but because I can’t stand an itchy beard.

  My badge goes into a pocket, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with the massive sidearm they’ve given me. I just hold it in one hand and head down the stairs. I’m glad I have it. I turn a corner on my way down and see some of my neighbors making their way up. I resist the urge to run in fear at shambling corpses approaching me in the gloom. I wave with my empty hand, but they can’t help but see the gun even in the dim light. I’m not sure if it’s the wave or the weapon, but they give me ample room as I pass, glaring sullenly at me. This is about as friendly an interaction as I ever have with my neighbors.

  I cross the dust-choked foyer and walk out into the humid night air. The coach Marsh is leaning on is impressive, even bigger than it looked from above. It’s tall. I’m pretty sure I could stand upright inside. It’s completely enclosed, matte black with ornate black metallic trim. There are no insignias or markings to indicate what it is. It’s as wide as a bus, with a set of steps that leads up a single flat-paneled door. The wooden wheels are lined with a metal of some kind and are as big around as I am tall. There is a padded bench on the front, where the driver can sit with room to spare. The driver is wearing a navy-blue uniform with brass buttons and shoulder things. What are those called? Epaulets? He’s got a badge similar to mine pinned on his chest. He sits, staring at me with a bored look on his face, holding the reins to the horses. I say hi to him, nod in my best friendly manner, and his expression doesn’t change in the slightest.

  I take a second look at the horses. All four of them, nearly identical. They’re huge. I’ve been around a few horses in my life. Mostly at state fairs and the like, and I’ve seen the occasional thoroughbred up close; I know how big they can get. But I’ve never seen any this massive. They are not just tall, they are solid, muscular, a Clydesdale’s big brother. One turns its glowing red eyes to regard me, like it knows I’m looking. Maybe I’m reading more into it, but I’m pretty sure it’s not impressed by what it sees. I keep clear and take a step back. It snorts, sounding amused, and dismisses me with a swish of its tail.

  Marsh is leaning against the wagon, waiting. He’s got an old, dark gray suit on. Maybe these crumpled, stained suits are standard issue here. I don’t know if he’s wearing the same shirt from last night or not, but it looks familiar and doesn’t smell any fresher. He’s definitely wearing the same tie, though. The stains are in the same pattern. I didn’t realize a fedora could get that wrinkled or crumpled. He’s puffing on a cigar, the cloud he’s exhaling mixing with the nearby fog. Maybe Warner sells the things; it’s got a similar swampy funk to it that I recognize.

  This guy has to weigh at least twice what I do. Maybe he’s related to the horse. He’s wide at the shoulders, and his biceps are about the size of my thighs. His hands could palm my head. And he hasn’t gotten any prettier overnight.

  “Marsh,” I greet him, warily. I have no idea what to expect from tonight.

  “Holy Hell, Green. I’ve seen old women duck-waddle to the crapper faster than you. You ready for this? You’re not goin’ to wet yourself or embarrass me, are you?”

  “Yes. No!” Dammit. “Yes, I’m ready. No, I won’t piss myself. Let’s go.”

  He opens the door for me, but as I try to step past him, his hand slams against my chest, stopping me. He pulls my badge out, flips it open and stuffs it back in my suit pocket, so the shield is hanging over the top and visible. He nods, and I pull myself inside. It would be cliché to say I feel like I’m climbing into a coffin. It’s dark, uncomfortable, confining. Marsh enters behind me, closes the door. We sit in pitch black for a few seconds before I hear the hiss of gas and an interior light dimly grows brighter. His open eye reflects the light, looking like it’s glowing in the gloom. Where do they keep the gas for these things? I’m guessing in a tank underneath the back seat. I try not to think of exactly how big of a bomb I’m sitting on right now.

  There are two benches inside the coach, facing each other. Behind the back bench is a large cage made of heavy iron bars. Shackles are bolted to the walls and floor inside it. Part of the seat is attached to the door of the cage, so it can fold up when the door is opened. Marsh sits on the bench facing backward, so I sit opposite him.

  He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me. I try not to squirm under his scrutiny.

  “So,” I venture. Marsh puffs on his cigar, filling the space with smoke. I stifle a cough. He might not have to breathe, but I do. However, it’s better than the alternative—sitting in a sealed box with just Marsh’s corpse stinking it up.

  “Look, Marsh. Tell me what is going on.”

  I don’t know what I’m expecting from him. I hate to sound like I’m whining, but seriously I need to wrap my head around this situation. He chews on his cigar a bit, puffs out another cloud. “OK. We got a few minutes to kill. What do you want to know?”

  I’m taken off-guard. He’s really going to give me some answers? Great, now I don’t know where to start. Every single question I’ve had over the past few weeks comes rushing to me all at once.

  After a brief pause, I ask the one that’s been bothering me the most. “Where are we? You say I’m working for the Necropolis PD. Is this place called Necropolis?”

  Marsh chuckles, a chilling sound that bounces around the inside of the coach, trapped, unable to escape. He knocks on the side of the coach, and we lurch forward as the coach pulls away from the curb. I can’t see where we’re going, but I can feel the rattle and roll of the vehicle. The motion of the coach mixes with corpse stink and cigar smoke, and it’s going to be a miracle if I don’t throw up before the ride is over.

  “This place has had a lot of names through the years, kid. It’s existed in some form or another for as long as we’ve needed to hide. Depends on who you ask. I’ve heard it called Meridian, officially. Though you’ll hear folks call it the Boneyard, purgatory, heaven, hell—any other number of places from myth. Necropolis works as good as any.”

  “Meridian or just Necropolis. OK.” I think for a second or two, gather my thoughts. “Where is it?”

  His eye twinkles with amusement. Another cloud of smoke streams out. “Now, that’s a good question. Let me ask you one. Where did you come from to get here?”

  He knows the answer. He’s asked me this many times before, but I humor him now. “Nebraska. Downtown Lincoln. I found a door under a bridge. I was dragged down a tunnel that just kept going. I ended up here.”

  Marsh nods in understanding. “Lincoln. That’s one of the open doorways to the Outside.”

  “Outside? Outside what?”

  Marsh leans forward, smoke creeping out both nostrils. He speaks softly, like he’s sharing a secret, though the deepness of his voice is enough to rattle the teeth in my jaw.

  “This place is outside where you know, kid. It’s a part of the world, but nowhere most people can find.” He waves the hand holding the cigar expansively. “It exists in between, underneath, and alongside everything that you know. It’s made up of forgotten places, dark corners, underground spaces. Unexplored areas of the world, abandoned buildings, and homes. Forests, caves, tunnels, cities below cities below forgotten cities. It’s where the dead come to live—the dead who don’t die, anyway.”

  I don’t know quite what to say to that. That may be more words than I’ve ever heard Marsh string together at once. Marsh leans back as the coach turns around a corner. I have to grip the armrest tightly to keep from sliding
along the bench.

  “Living people ain’t supposed to be able to find us here. It’s hidden from living eyes. Magic and whatnot. So how you got here,” he eyes me suspiciously. “How you got here is a mystery.”

  We’ve gone through this line of questioning many times. Clearly, he still doesn’t accept my pleas of ignorance.

  “Wait. You told me what Meridian is. Not where.”

  Marsh shakes his head. “No, I answered you. It’s a mishmash of forgotten places. Here they are together, but they are miles apart back in your world. You came here through a hidden doorway in Nebraska. But walk a few blocks over in Meridian, and you’re at some abandoned buildings no one living could find in Brooklyn. Next to that, there’s a whole neighborhood from Paris, or a subway line no one remembers from Cleveland, or a bomb shelter built and forgotten in Moscow. South African slums, shanty towns, swamp villages. Our city here is made up of all the places you living people don’t remember no more. Either all record of a place has been lost, or we’ve helped the process along to claim some places. There are a few doorways out, but they’re all hidden with glamours and magicks, or they’re guarded by guys like us.”

  Glamours and magicks. I’d normally think that was a joke, but I am listening to a talking corpse. I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. I’m going to have to accept that just maybe, magic is a real thing.

  What else do I want to ask? I’ve already decided I don’t want to know where my food is coming from. I could ask him about glamours or magic, but a few other questions are still looming in my mind. The most important one almost escapes my lips, but I clamp my mouth shut. No. That question . . . that question is too important.

  Instead, I ask, “When do I get to go home?”

  Marsh smiles and says nothing. I could force the issue, I suppose. Ask again. Pester him until he answers. But his silence pretty much sums up what I feared. I’m not going anywhere.