When it became almost unbearable to watch, the cannibal attack ended.
The deranged man took a step back, cocked his head to the side as if something were crawling around inside his ear, and lumbered out of the store.
The monitor went black as the VCR automatically shut off.
Milton looked at the detectives. “Pretty creepy, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I’ll say,” Hank said.
“That was definitely a zombie,” Bill said.
“Get real, Bill. You just said he looked drunk.”
“I changed my mind. We just witnessed a real, live zombie.”
“First of all, there is no such thing.” Hank kept shaking his head. “And second of all, isn’t ‘live zombie’ an oxymoron?”
“I have to agree with Bill.” Milton gave Hank a serious look. “We all saw it.”
Hank eyed the two carafes on the twin hotplates—one labeled “Roasted,” the other “Decaf”—desperate to swing the conversation in another direction. “Think the coffee’s still good?”
Milton scowled at Hank. “I don’t have to remind you this is still a crime scene.”
“Have you dusted for prints?” Hank asked.
“Well, yes.”
“Seems a shame when it’s only going to get thrown out.”
“I have to admit, it does sound tempting,” Milton said. “Oh, what the hell.”
Hank plucked three Styrofoam cups from a stack. He filled them with the roasted blend.
“You know, while we’re at it . . .” Bill motioned to the display containing an assortment of bear claws, Danishes, and donuts.
“I’ll have a chocolate glaze,” Hank said.
Bill reached in and handed Hank the donut.
Milton pointed to a lemon Danish.
Bill bit his powdered sugar donut.
They sipped their coffees.
The entrance doors hissed open.
“What’s going on in here?” Clare demanded, marching up to the counter.
The three men froze, each with a pastry in one hand and a coffee in the other.
Clare glared at them. She put her hands on her hips.
“Could we interest you in a Danish?” Hank asked feebly.
“And some decaf, if you have it,” Clare replied, breaking into a grin.
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, Hank and Bill stood outside, each finishing his second cup of coffee, when a gray Chevy Suburban pulled into the station. A business plaque on the driver door read: Citywide Toxic Waste Management Disposal.
“That should be Mr. Clifton,” Officer Silverman called over to the detectives.
A large man climbed out of the SUV. He strode over as if he wanted to clobber whoever had summoned him from bed at three in the morning. His scowl changed to mild surprise, then a tight-lipped smile when he saw the panel truck next to the gas pump island. “Great! You found my truck.”
Hank handed the vehicle registration to Clifton. “Sorry to get you up at this time of night.”
“So where is my lame-ass brother? Anthony and his jerk friend took off with this truck. I swear, when I get my hands on those two . . .” Clifton punched his fist into the palm of his hand.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news.” Hank pointed to the charred bodies by the pumps. Clare was plucking a tissue sample for a DNA match.
“Oh, Jesus!” Clifton nearly keeled over. He leaned back against the truck and looked away.
Clare glanced up at the detectives. “This makes my job a lot easier.”
Bill walked up to Clifton. “We believe your brother or his friend may have killed the convenience store clerk.”
“My brother’s a flake. He’s no killer.”
“Have you ever known him to go berserk?”
“No. Why?”
“Someone ate the clerk’s face off. That’s why.”
“What? Like a frigging zombie?”
Bill glanced over at Hank. “He said it. I didn’t.”
“Let’s be realistic here. We’ll know which one did it after the lab work.” Hank directed Clifton’s attention back to the fused corpses. “It appears one of them decided to light up a cigarette while the other one was pumping, igniting the fumes.”
Clifton turned away. He leaned against the truck, doubled over, and threw up on his shoes. He peered between the side paneling slats at the truck bed. “Oh, tell me they didn’t.”
“What’s wrong?” Hank asked.
“It’s gone!”
“What is?”
“The drum! The stupid bastards dumped the drum!”
***
After questioning Clifton, Hank and Bill returned to the station to catch up on some much-needed rest in the locker room lounge. Bill nodded off right away on the couch.
Every time Hank closed his eyes, he saw the gruesome image of the two burnt corpses. He decided to forego sleep to catch up on a backlog of work on his desk.
Bill staggered into the squad room just after noon. He plopped down in his chair.
“How’d you sleep?” Hank sat back, stretching his arms over his head.
“Like a stuffed pilgrim.” Bill fished a chocolate-covered donut from the pink box on Hank’s desk. “So, any luck with the truck log?”
“Yeah, I think we caught a break. The truck was serviced only a day ago. The mechanic recorded the odometer reading.”
“Then we should be able to figure how many miles Clifton’s brother put on the truck before arriving at the gas station.” Bill licked the icing off the donut.
“Exactly. Based on the current reading, they traveled almost twenty-two miles.”
“That should narrow it down.”
Hank handed Bill a marked-up map.
“You drew in some lines here. Is this a road?” Bill asked.
“For a new tract of homes in development called Summit Estates up in the hills. I looked it up on the Internet. I would imagine it’s pretty secluded.”
“This would make for a perfect dumping site.”
“And the mileage checks out.”
* * *
The rural road wound up the canyon into the hills, which were clustered with giant mushroom-shaped oaks that towered over battlements of brushwood.
“Pretty good climb.” Bill looked over at Hank as he slipped the Crown Victoria’s transmission into low gear. “Still think they brought the truck all the way up here?”
“We’ll see.”
A massive granite sign that read “Summit Estates” stood on the side of the gravel road.
Bill pointed to a dirt road veering to the right. “Looks like tire tracks.”
Hank gunned the powerful engine up the steep grade.
Once they reached the crest, Hank shut off the engine. They climbed out of the car.
Hank gazed out at the smog layer over the distant city below. “Can’t say I really care for the view.”
“Still, better to be up here than down there.” Bill spotted an overturned barrel without the lid lying on its side in a yellowish green puddle. “Looks like your hunch paid off.”
Hank got down on one knee to peer inside the drum. “What do you think it is? There wasn’t a manifest in the truck’s glove compartment when I checked last night.”
“Damned if I know. Whatever it is, it must be toxic as hell.”
Everything that came into contact with the sludge was wilted or dead: grass, weeds, shrubs, two birds, and a toad.
“The lid must have burst off the drum when they pushed it off the truck,” Hank said.
“Looks like one of them fell in.” Bill drew Hank’s attention to the hand imprint in the coagulated substance.
“I wonder if it was the one who killed the convenience store clerk.”
“Be my guess.” Bill took out his notepad. He wrote down the series of numbers that were stenciled on the drum under the skull-and-crossbones warning label and “Property of the U.S. Government.”
“That’s a fifty-five-gallon drum,” Hank sai
d. “Judging by the existing puddle, I’d say we’re missing about fifty gallons.”
The detectives walked a path parallel to a narrow trench stained with the mysterious chemical. They followed it to a ridge that overlooked the sprawling housing development site below.
A small cul-de-sac of five newly constructed homes was directly below, some with cars parked in the driveways. The other streets branching off were in early building stages, mostly concrete slabs and some framed shells.
The furrow of toxic goop trailed down the steep slope for about fifty feet, passing under a cyclone fence into a bean-shaped swimming pool.
The backyard was a mess of tipped over tables and chairs, uprooted plants, and shattered clay pots strewn about the patio. A chaise lounge and an air mattress were cast adrift in the pool.
Bill put his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun. “Is that a body?”
“Looks like it.”
A sunburned woman in a two-piece bathing suit floated face down in the middle of the pool.
***
Hank parked the Crown Victoria at the curb by the first of the houses that looped around the cul-de-sac. Cars were parked in the driveways, but there was no sign of the residents. With no shade trees to block the afternoon sun, every house was a mirage shimmering behind the heat wave rising off the sidewalk.
Getting out of the car, Bill shrugged out of his suit jacket. He tossed it over the headrest. He unbuttoned his shirtsleeves and rolled them up just below the elbows, then loosened his tie.
Hank exited his side. “Captain sees you looking like that, he’ll bust you back to a beat cop.”
“You want to sweat to death, be my guest.”
“What the hell.” Hank took off his jacket.
“Is it me, or is this place a ghost town?” Bill asked.
A woman screamed from inside a house directly across the street from the one with the pool.
The detectives cut across a newly planted lawn. They ran up the steps to the front entrance. Hank pounded on the door. “Police! Open up!”
Again, a scream, only this time it was cut short.
Bill raised his right leg. He kicked the doorknob. Hank followed through with his shoulder, busting open the door.
A loud crash rumbled from the second floor.
Hank and Bill charged up the staircase, drawing their weapons.
After reaching the landing, Hank sidled up to the left wall of the hall, while Bill kept to the right side.
Strange noises gurgled from the room at the end of the hall, like someone blowing bubbles in a bucket of water.
The detectives crept up to the master bedroom.
A naked elderly woman was face up on a king-size bed. Her intestines dangled out of her exposed belly and coiled onto a lamp, which was shattered on a small throw rug.
A scrawny old man in black swim trunks was leaning over the woman, his head buried inside her stomach. Their red, blistered bodies looked as if they had been scalded by a hot shower.
Hank swallowed hard, fighting back the urge to puke.
“If this is what geriatric foreplay looks like,” Bill said, “you can count me out.”
“Not funny, Bill.”
The old man arched his back, raising his gore-covered head out of the woman’s desecrated stomach. He turned to the detectives, his rheumy eyes peering out from behind a crimson mask. He puffed out a rush of air, vibrating his lips like a horse. Tiny pink bubbles dappled his chin. He shook his head, flicking bloody mist everywhere.
The old man leaped off the bed. He moved with an incredible speed that was unnatural for a person his age. He vaulted across the room.
With no time to issue a warning, Hank fired two times.
Both shots penetrated the man’s chest without any effect.
Bill shot the man point-blank in the face.
The man stumbled blindly out of the bedroom and into the hall. He slammed into the railing and soared over the banister. His skull sounded like an exploding melon from the fifteen-foot fall.
They stepped into the master bedroom to take a closer look at the woman.
She couldn’t have been more ravaged if she’d been attacked by a fierce pack of hungry wolves.
Hank turned away, having seen enough. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”
“I’ll call it in.” Bill reached into his trouser pocket. “Damn! I left my cell phone in my jacket. You bring yours?”
“It’s in my coat.”
“Christ. Let’s get back to the car.”
The detectives scampered downstairs and hurried out the front door.
The trunk of the Crown Victoria was open.
Bill looked at Hank. “Seriously? Someone broke into our car?”
Hank and Bill advanced slowly toward the vehicle.
Two men in bathing suits stepped out from behind the car. Their skin looked baked to a crisp, as if they had fallen asleep inside tanning booths.
One man ratcheted a police-issue Remington 12-gauge pump he’d stolen from the cruiser’s trunk.
“Put it down before we put you down!” Bill shouted.
The man with the shotgun grinned. He turned to the man standing next to him. He rested the muzzle of the shotgun on the bridge of the other man’s nose and pulled the trigger.
The victim’s head exploded in a scarlet mist.
“That is seriously messed up!” Bill yelled. “Since when do zombies use guns?”
The man with the shotgun cocked another shell into the chamber.
The detectives dove behind a hedge.
The shotgun blast shredded the leaves off the top of the bush, sending mulch raining down on their heads.
Hank and Bill scurried through an open gate next door. They ran down the side yard. The rear sliding glass door was unlocked, so they slipped into the house.
The kitchen was snow-blind white: white cabinets, white counter tiles, white appliances.
The red pool of blood on the white linoleum floor screamed to be noticed.
Bill peeked out through the sliding glass door. “I don’t see him coming.”
Bare footprints tracked through the blood and led out of the kitchen.
The detectives didn’t have to look far to see a dead man halfway down the hall.
He was flat on his back, sporting a pair of Hawaiian swim trunks, a meat cleaver wedged in his forehead. His skin looked overcooked, as if he’d been roasted on a rotisserie spit.
They heard a scuffling noise coming from behind a door in the kitchen.
Bill pointed his gun at the door. “Someone’s in the pantry.”
Hank grabbed the doorknob. He opened the door about six inches.
A carving knife thrust out in a stabbing motion.
Hank kicked the door, slamming it into the attacker’s wrist.
The blade clattered to the floor.
A voice cried out inside the pantry.
Hank swung open the door.
A young woman cowered in the back of the pantry. She wore a yellow T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and white sneakers. As she was a redhead, her face was freckled and porcelain white.
“Well, I guess it’s safe to assume you’re not one of them.” Hank lowered his gun. “What’s your name?”
“Sherry. Sherry Thompson.”
“You live here?”
“Yes. It’s just me and my husband.”
“Is that him in the hall?”
Sherry stepped out of the pantry and glanced down the hall. “Oh my God!” Sherry broke into tears. “He gave me no choice. He came at me like a madman!”
Bill showed her to a chair. “Maybe you should tell us what happened.”
“The Andersons invited everyone on the block over for a pool party. I wasn’t feeling up to it. Earl insisted we go.” Sherry paused for a moment, the reality of what she had done finally hitting her.
“That’s okay. Take it slow,” Hank said reassuringly.
“I had a splitting headache. Earl could be such a pest when he wanted
his way, so I just gave in. We were probably the last ones to come over. Just about everyone was already in the pool. Charles—Mr. Anderson—was complaining that his pool filter wasn’t working properly. There was this yellowish cloud in the water at the deep end. Looked like pee. It was pretty gross.”
“So I gather you didn’t go swimming?” Hank asked.
“No. I only stayed about fifteen minutes. Then I came home to lie down.”
“Lucky for you,” Bill said.
“I got up to get a glass of water. The next thing I knew, Earl was behind me with his hands around my throat. I thought he was going to kill me. I remember grabbing the meat cleaver . . .” She paused and took a deep breath. “Why would he want to hurt me?”
Hank glanced over at Bill. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Must be a reaction to that chemical in the pool,” Bill said.
Sherry gave the detectives a questioning look.
“Some idiots dumped a drum full of a liquid chemical up on the hill,” Bill said. “The spill drained down into the Andersons’ pool.”
“And that’s what made Earl go crazy?” Sherry asked.
“We think so,” Hank said. “How many people were at this pool party, would you say?”
“Counting myself, twelve.”
“And everyone went in the pool?” Hank took his notepad out of his shirt pocket to make a list.
“All except me.”
“Eleven, huh? We were forced to shoot the man next door, who we believe killed his wife,” Hank said.
“You mean Mitch and Lois?”
“I’m afraid so.” Hank wrote down their names.
“They were the sweetest couple.”
Bill shook his head. “Not anymore. We saw a dead woman floating in the pool.”
“What was she wearing?”
“A green two-piece bikini.”
“Oh my God! Maggie!”
“Who is Maggie?” Hank asked.
“Maggie and Donald live two houses over. They have a six-year-old daughter, Cindy.”
“I was hoping there wouldn’t be any kids,” Bill said.
“The Andersons have a teenage boy, Joey.”
“Who else was there?” Hank asked.
“Rob and Carl.”
Hank jotted the names. “Tall guys, buff builds?”
In Case of Carnage Page 14