Necropolis PD

by Nathan Sumsion

  But do I trust her with my life? Does smoothing over her hurt feelings justify putting my life in her hands? Captain Radu, Marsh, and Greystone have all adamantly insisted I not tell anyone that I am this thing they call a Seer. But how else do I explain it?

  We don’t get a lot of friendly looks as we start moving through. Marsh leads the way, his foul mood written on his face. Most everyone who sees his scowl quickly scoots out of his path. Marsh walks past the front entrance to the club, stays on the sidewalk, and heads over to a door on the side of the building. He reaches up to pull on the handle, but it is locked. He snarls, annoyed. He knocks on the door. Hard. It sounds like gunshots as he hammers on the door a good dozen times.

  An eye-plate covering a peephole opens on the door, revealing suspicious eyes glaring at us from inside.

  “Residents only,” the voice behind the eyes declares before firmly shutting the plate.

  “Really?” Marsh mutters, not amused in the slightest. This time he knocks so loud I’m surprised he’s not denting the door.

  “I could just enter and explain to him if you like, Detective Marsh,” Greystone offers, but he waves her away.

  “Nah. I’m good.”

  The eye-plate opens again. “Residents only. Do not make me come out there.”

  Marsh flashes his badge. “You’re welcome to try, pal. Necropolis PD. Let us in.”

  The eyes study the badge for a few moments; then they turn to regard the three of us. They stare a few more moments, and then the eye-plate slams shut again. We look at each other. Seconds tick by. The scowl on Marsh’s face deepens. I take a step back, giving Marsh more space.

  We hear a lock turning on the other side of the door, and the door swings open. I peer over Marsh’s shoulder but don’t see anyone on the inside. I’m confused until I hear the voice coming from down below me.

  “Please enter, gentlemen. Madam.”

  The doorman is roughly four feet tall, and that’s being generous. The inside of the door has a ladder built into it so he can reach the peephole. He is dressed in a sharp dark suit with a crisp white shirt and red tie. None of the colors are faded, and there are no holes or split seams; even his shoes are polished. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone dressed this nicely since I’ve been here. His skin is even relatively close to a healthy living skin tone, a dark brown rather than green or grey. His hair is colored a dark black, which surprises me. I’m used to pale, colorless hair, brittle and dry. His is combed and styled. I can tell he is dead, but he’s the liveliest person I’ve seen here.

  “Thanks for being so quick, big guy,” Marsh says, walking brusquely past him. Greystone floats past, nodding to him but not saying anything. The doorman is clearly put out by having to let us in.

  “Thanks,” I say nicely, trying to smooth things over. As I step around him, I see him do a double take.

  “Sir?” he says, reaching out to stop me. He grabs me by the sleeve. I expect him to say more, but he’s staring in fascination at my hand. He hasn’t let go of me, I notice.

  “Sir, you’re alive?” he asks, his other hand now tentatively touching mine.

  I hesitate.

  Marsh is halfway up the first flight of stairs. Greystone is floating up behind him, and she turns around in alarm.

  “Alive. And warm.” The doorman looks up at me now, and his eyes focus sharply. Deviously.

  Hungrily.

  “Hey, now!” I protest, trying to pull my hand back as Greystone yells out, “Detective Marsh!”

  And the little guy chomps down on the palm of my left hand. I scream in pain and try and shake him off, but both his hands are latched onto my wrist. I slam him into the wall, but he doesn’t let go, and his teeth break my skin. As my blood hits his tongue, I can feel him start convulsing in pleasure.

  That’s when a freight train plows into him, tearing him off my arm and smashing him into the door. The door is knocked completely off its hinges as Marsh lands on him out in the street. His teeth were biting down on me when he was tackled, and he ripped a nice chunk out of my palm when he was torn away. I can’t help it; I cry out in pain.

  Out on the sidewalk, the crowd scatters as Marsh sits up and pins the doorman beneath one knee and starts smashing fist after fist into the guy’s upturned face. I see my red blood spraying out of his mouth along with splatters of his own blackish ichor. After about half-a-dozen hammer blows, the guy isn’t even twitching. My partner adds a few more for good measure.

  Marsh gets up and turns back to me. “Green, you OK?”

  I’m sitting on the bottom step, clutching my hand. I nod shakily, holding my hand against my shirt, trying to stem to flow of blood.

  Marsh turns back to the doorman, who is starting to stir. Marsh picks him up and kicks him. I’m talking he holds him at waist level and launches him like an NFL punter. The doorman sails across the street, slams into a bench on the other side of the road, and crumples to the ground. Some of the bones don’t look like they are pointing the right way.

  Marsh walks back to me. “C’mon. Let’s get up to this lady’s place and get you inside.”

  The crowd peers in the stairway curiously as we make our way up to the third floor. Marsh has to help me navigate the stairs. I’m not in danger of blacking out, but I’m weaving a little bit, and he keeps me from falling back down.

  We turn the corner, out into the hallway on the third floor. There are four doors up here: two of them are open, their residents out in the landing to investigate the noise. Jessica is outside her door, looking at us in confusion.

  “Back in your homes. Nothing to see,” Marsh says, walking in front of me. One of the bystanders doesn’t clear the way fast enough and Marsh elbows them to the side, nearly denting the wall. He points at Jessica.

  “You! You’re Jessica Everin?”

  She nods. “Yes, what—”

  “Good. We’re coming in,” he says, shooing her back inside as I stumble after.

  “Hey!” she protests, futilely. I bump into her in the hallway as I try to squeeze past. Marsh slams the door behind us and locks it.

  “You can’t do . . .” she starts to lay into Marsh, but then she notices the blood on me, the blood that’s still leaking out of my hand and onto her floor. “Jake, are you OK?”

  I nod and move past her. I need to sit down. I walk into her front room and I’m halfway to sitting in an easy chair before I realize there are other people in the room with me. Two other men and a woman are sitting on the couch, and a third man in the chair matching my own. All of them are openly gawking at the blood oozing between my fingers. Bottles of wine and half-empty glasses are on the coffee table, and cigarette smoke hangs in a cloud over the room.

  “Don’t mind me,” I say wearily, pinching my injured hand harder, holding it against my stomach. “But if any of you want a bite, remember I’m armed.”

  “Hold on, Jake,” Jessica says firmly and runs into the back of the apartment. Marsh walks into the doorway to the room, blocking the exit. He eyes everyone suspiciously. Greystone floats over to me.

  “Detective Green, how are you feeling?” she asks.

  I take a moment to try and calm down. The last thing I want to do is snap at her after she’s finally willing to speak to me again. I’m not hurt too badly. I’m bleeding, sure, and I can feel a piece missing from the bottom of my left palm. It hurts like hell. And no telling what kind of infection I’m going to be looking at. Was that a zombie? Will I turn into a zombie?

  “You won’t turn into a zombie,” she reassures me mentally. I must have broadcast that last worry. Or she’s starting to get to know me.

  I attempt a shaky smile at her. “I’ll be fine.”

  “If he can keep from being torn apart by little kids and doormen for two seconds,” Marsh grumbles.

  Jessica returns with an armful of bandages, rubbing alcohol and scissors. I rais
e my eyebrows in surprise.

  In response to my look, she explains, “We use them to appear more alive. Nothing like a bleeding injury to make it seem like we’re one of the living.” She sits on the arm of my chair, puts my hand on her lap, and starts to clean the blood off.

  One of Jessica’s guests stands up. “Miss Everin, it looks like you and your guests need some time. We’ll be going if you don’t mind.”

  Marsh answers for her. “Woah, now. Slow down. Have a seat.” He folds his arms and firmly plants himself in front of the exit. “We won’t take up too much of your time, pal.”

  The man holds up his hands in surrender and sits back down.

  Marsh points at Jessica. “You’re Miss Everin.” He waits for her nod of assent before he continues. “Who are you guys?”

  The four look at each other a bit before the man who attempted to leave answers, “My name is Harold Mayweather. This beautiful woman beside me is my wife, Genevieve.”

  Something about him distracts me from Jessica’s work on my palm. Harold looks normal enough. His clothes are well made, though about a century out of fashion. He would look more at home in a Victorian parlor than hanging out above a nightclub. He’s wearing a pinstriped suit with tails, a gray vest, high-collared shirt, and carrying a cane with a decorative gold knob. Everything is pressed, wrinkle free. I think he even has a pocket watch on the end of a fob. He must be one of Jessica’s actor friends. His wispy black hair is slicked back in a comb-over that attempts to cover a hole in the side of his head. His wife, Genevieve, wears what I can only call a dressing gown. It’s long, velvet, and she’s wearing gloves that reach her biceps. Her hair is wrapped in some intricate braid around her head.

  I’m not sure what it is that caught my attention. He looks strange, but no stranger than anyone else here. He glances at me, catches my eye, then quickly looks away. His wife notices his reaction and looks over at me curiously.

  The man on the other side of Genevieve is wearing an honest-to-god top hat and monocle. He has a thick mustache that has been waxed into curls. I’m pretty sure it’s fake. With his wrinkled skin and slightly heavy body, I can only think Mr. Peanut as he says, “I’m Ferdinand Calhoun.”

  Greystone chokes back a laugh. I must have broadcast that out through our contact. I may be a little bit loopier than I thought.

  The last man is leaning back in his chair, a glass of wine in one hand and a cigar in the other. His face is chiseled tough, the lines hard. His skin looks solid and worn instead of the soft leathery skin I’m used to seeing. He glares at all of us. “Mr. Dean.”

  I don’t know if they are supposed to be important people or not. I’ve never heard their names, and Marsh wouldn’t be impressed if God himself appeared in front of us.

  Marsh makes a note of all the names in a small notebook. He continues scribbling without looking up. “What do you guys do then?”

  “I say, is this important somehow?” Mr. Peanut asks.

  “Humor me,” Marsh says, glancing up. Jessica is finishing up wrapping my hand in gauze. It is snug and has stopped the bleeding. I look up at her, smiling thanks, but she only returns a frown. Well, that hospitality was short lived.

  “Well, we are actors, sir. Surely, you know this.”

  Marsh nods towards the chiseled-out-of-stone Mr. Dean. “What about you? You don’t look like one for much acting.”

  Dean takes a swallow from his wine glass, keeping his eyes locked on Marsh. Finally, he growls, “I am the financier.”

  “Detectives, why are you here?” Jessica asks in exasperation. She moves my hand off her lap and starts cleaning up her supplies. “I have no desire to spend any more time than necessary with Detective Green.”

  “Jessica,” I say, but Marsh’s laugh interrupts me.

  “I know how you feel, lady. Wow, Green, you’ve got a real gift with the girls.”

  She is putting her supplies back in a box, shoving them in harder than is strictly necessary. I stand up and approach her. I can see that she knows I am coming closer to her, but she doesn’t turn around.

  “Jessica, we need your help,” I explain as sincerely as I can.

  She turns to face me, arms crossed in front of her chest. She stares at me resolutely. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I have no interest in helping you anymore.”

  I spread my arms, about to make some kind of a point, but I have no idea what it is. Instead, my arms fall to my sides, and I turn to Marsh. “You need these people to answer any more questions?”

  He shakes his head. “I just needed to know who they were. They can go now.”

  All four of Jessica’s guests start to stand up, but Jessica gestures for them to stay. “No, they don’t need to leave. You’ll be leaving now since there’s nothing left to discuss.”

  They look uncertainly at each other, then start to sit back down.

  Marsh snarls at them. “Don’t get comfortable.”

  Jessica turns to Mr. Mayweather. “Harold, don’t let these detectives intimidate you.”

  Mayweather raises his hands from his lap. “Please, we don’t want to get in the center of this.”

  Again, something about him is strange. I take an unconscious step forward and look at him more closely. He glances at me and quickly averts his gaze again.

  Mr. Calhoun fidgets uncomfortably. “Detectives, please. Is this really necessary? What possible help could a troupe of actors be to you?”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Marsh mutters.

  I turn again imploringly to Jessica. “Please, Jessica, just hear me out.”

  She ignores me and turns back to her guests. “Harold, what were you saying before we were interrupted? Your wife has some sort of opportunity she wishes to discuss with us?”

  Harold waves away the question, putting on an air of false modesty. “Please, Jessica. We don’t need to talk about this now, we can come back . . . er . . . What are you doing?” he asks me as he finishes. As he’s been talking, I’ve been slowly getting closer. I’m staring at his face. What is going on?

  There is something different about his face. I can’t explain it. His expressions are unlike anyone else’s I’ve come across. Maybe it’s because he’s an actor, but there’s a nagging in my gut that says this isn’t the case.

  “Don’t mind me,” I say, absently, still staring at his face. “Go on.”

  “Really, Detective,” Genevieve complains indignantly. “This is quite rude.”

  Mayweather continues, slightly flustered. “I was just saying, I don’t know why you’re bothering to ask us anything.”

  I ignore his words, instead concentrating on his face, his eyes. What is it?

  “Detective Green, what do you see?” Greystone asks me inside my head.

  I can’t explain it, Ms. Greystone. It’s like . . . It’s like . . . The words coming out of his mouth don’t match the expression on his face as he’s saying the words. The sentiment isn’t lining up with the meaning. His face is just a—I dunno—a mask for whatever is inside.

  It’s like what’s inside him doesn’t match the outside. When I think of me, I think of both how I look, my body, and that inner part of me that makes up my personality. If I had to put a word to it, I’d say my spirit, I guess. I can separate them in my mind, but they are two halves of the whole that represent me in my mind’s eye. With Mayweather, it’s like those two pieces are different halves that are somehow out of sync. But how does that even make sense? How could you have something different on the inside? Like someone switched bodies? Or took possession.

  Realization hits me. My eyes go wide. “Holy crap!” I whisper.

  Harold Mayweather is a body playing host to a demon.

  At the same moment that my eyes flare open in understanding, Harold’s face undergoes an instant transformation. He realizes he’s been made. His eyes blaze with surging energy, and his mou
th splits into an insane grin. He leaps up from the couch and rams both of his fists into my chest. I don’t even have time to react. It feels like I’ve just been hit by a truck. I go sailing over the top of the kitchen counter behind me and slam into the upper cupboards. My back destroys the cabinet I hit, shattering dishes and glasses around me as I bounce off the shelves and hit the ground.

  Around the counter, I can still see what is happening, but I’m too dazed to move. Marsh drops his notebook and draws his gun in one smooth motion. Before he can get a bead on Mayweather, though, the demon reaches down, seizes a leg of the glass and mahogany coffee table, and swings the entire piece of furniture into Marsh’s face. The force of the blow shatters the table around Marsh’s head, sending his gun flying and knocking him into a tangle with the bar stools in front of the counter.

  “What—?” Calhoun staggers up in confusion, his mouth hanging open in shock. Next to him, Harold’s wife turns to Calhoun, her mouth a grim line, her eyes glaring manically. She grabs his head in both her hands and twists.

  Calhoun’s neck snaps loudly over the noise of Marsh trying to extricate himself from the stools. She wrenches it so hard his face is blinking in confusion, looking from where it has been twisted completely backward on his body. He convulses into a heap on the couch.

  Genevieve turns to her husband and shouts, “Run, Master!” She throws herself on top of Marsh, her fingers extended like claws. Jessica looks on in horror.

  Master? That’s an odd way to address your husband.

  Unless she’s speaking to the thing inside him.

  Harold Mayweather looks at me, laughing to match his wild grin. I’ve never heard a laugh like that before. It cuts through the noise of the dishes that continue to fall down from the mess of cabinets and cupboards to crash around me. Mayweather steps towards me, his arms extended. I’m screaming at my body to move, to do something, but I can only manage spasmodic twitches.