Cemetery District 1-6

8/3/2019 Cemetery District 1-6

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When the dead came back they werent looking for brains. All theywanted were their lives back. Jack Morgan was a cop and, until he died,had been a damned good one. Now, eking out an unlife in the heart ofthe citys Cemetery District a young girls disappearance has forcedhis former partner to seek his help. The hunt for clues will lead themthrough a world of voodoo, paranoia, discrimination and the secretsbehind the mass resurrection and the truth behind Jacks death.

"Every day above ground's a good one."

1Being dead was easy. No pulse, no hunger, no fatigue... it was

a relatively sweet deal. Aside from a couple of odor issues once in awhile it was a trouble free existence. Life, on the other hand, was abitch. We'll fast forward through the initial confusion and panic thata mass resurrection causes, the military crack downs and the masssuicides that only swelled our ranks. Too many folks, self included I'mashamed to say, subscribed to the Romero Gospels. B-Horror flicks wherethe walking dead were a ravenous, mindless cannibal nightmare used tomove a flimsy plot forward cost a lot of people there lives a few timesover. Some of us were grotesque, non-verbal stereotypical zombies.They didn't have a lot of sense and just sort of stumbled around theplaces they knew. Most of us were pretty, you know, as far as corpsesgo. We'd been embalmed and treated right nice until the graveyards upchucked us and sent us back from the great beyond. None of us were allthat bad, we just wanted our lives back. Home, family and a sense ofsecurity. My widowed wife and her new husband hadn't been too receptivewhen I showed up on the front porch in a dirty uniform and sheepishgrin. The boys at the precinct were even worse.

That was before Sarah Melton had gone missing. I'm gettingahead of myself though. My name is Jack Morgan and two years ago, I wasa Metro Police detective. My partner, Reggie Schaefer and I had beenworking a string of burglaries on the south side of town. Smash and

grabs, nothing special or criminally masterful. It had probably been abunch of kids, knocking in car windows and yanking GPS systems andpurses. Reggie was a lanky, young guy that we all called MisterFabulous. He had a light tan, chiseled features and perfect black hairthat he slicked back before sliding into a tailor made suit andstrapping on his revolver for the day's work. He smoked like a chimneyand drank a pitcher of beer a night and never seemed to suffer any ofthe consequences of his debauchery. I was a different story alltogether. Thirty with a receding hair line and a beer gut, I did well toslide into my off the rack department store blazer and pants. Even so,we had a good time and enjoyed what we did.

We were working the latest burglary at an apartment complex offOld Hickory Boulevard. Reggie was smoking a cigarette and talking tothe victim, a twenty-two year old coed with blonde hair and huge titswho had crammed herself into a wife-beater and a pair of Daisy Dukes togive her statement. I was busy trying to get the surveillance camerafootage from the main office. Cameras watching the office parking lotand front entrance had probably caught something and I was bound anddetermined to see. Thats when I saw the kid with the crowbar. He wason the far side of the building by the pool, about to smash the windowof a little blue rice burner.

"Reggie," I yelled, charging out of the building towards thesuspect. "Get him!"

Mister Fabulous vaulted over the hood of a car entering thecomplex as I took a hard turn around the side of the building. The kid


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was fast but he wasn't fast enough. I was grabbing for him when heswung wide with the crow bar. There was a sharp pain along my jaw andthen nothing. The world was black and quiet. Brain aneurysms suck. Iwoke up two years later sitting in the Metro Cemetery District. Thatswhere this story starts, in a portable storage unit turned apartment tenfeet long by four feet wide that opened out onto a patch of green wheremy headstone had been. I had a folding chair, a book case and a

portable TV that picked up the local news if the wind was blowing theright direction. My feet were propped up on a foot locker that had afew changes of clothes, my badge and my pistol. My wife had been kindenough to leave all my things on the front porch for the ARC so I helpedmyself to the clothes and books and broke into the house for the shadowbox with the gun and shield. She could have the letter from the mayor;I never like the bastard anyhow. The sun was shining brightly on myhumble tin can when a familiar shape came lurching over the horizon. Hewas tall and lanky... come to think of it, he looked exactly how he hadthe afternoon I died. The only thing that had changed was the title onhis badge: Detective Sergeant.

He stared at me from a distance. I'd seen the ritual a fewtimes; old buddies and partners who wanted to pay their respects, offersome words of comfort and try to move on with their lives. I'd seen adozen familiar faces and not a one of them had ever breathed two words

to me. They stayed just out of earshot and stared a while beforehanging their heads and leaving. Not this time. There was a look ofdetermination across his clinched jaw as Reggie slowly walked towardsme. His hands were clutching a case file, white knuckled over thefamiliar manila folder. He stopped at the entrance of my little homeand tried to smile. He looked at everything I owned, on display for thewhole world, looked at the jeans and t-shirt draped over theunfortunately still pudgy body of his partner and friend but neverlooked me in the eyes. Couldn't blame him. They'd been green when Ihad a pulse. Now they were a shade of milky gray that we'd both seentoo many times in the past to be comfortable with.

"Been a long time, boss." He was choking on the words. I'dknown him eight years by the time I died and I'd never seen him withoutsomething to say.

"That it has, sarge," I answered with a grin, pointing at theshiny new badge on his belt.

He glanced down, then back to my chest and the faded letters MPDon the left breast. "Yeah, happened a few months ago. How ya' been,Jack?"

"Dead," I said, checking my wrist for a pulse. "Yeah, mostlydead. I do get that saying now. Bored to death. Yeah, thats prettywell it."

He swallowed and began drumming his fingers on the folder in hishands.

"Since you brought a case file and not flowers I'm guessingyoure not here to pay your respects."

He shook his head and handed me the folder. I didn't open it."Sarah Melton went missing at the far end of the Cemetery Districtyesterday morning," he said, looking around at the small crowd growingbehind him. We never had a lot of visitors and anyone who came knockingwith a pulse was automatically a spectacle. "She was a grad studentover at Vandy, working on some report about civil rights and zom... thewalking dead."

"I prefer 'living impaired.' Makes me feel like I'll get aspecial parking place next time I go to Wal-Mart."

He cracked a small grin. "She'd been getting some harassingcalls, the Anti-Z movement. Apparently, she was pushing for the schoolto accept a couple of former students who died a few credits short oftheir degrees. No suspect description but a witness reported two people


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shoving her in a van."The Anti-Zombie Movement was sweeping the nation. Folks who

wanted to see all of us walkers put back in the ground had alreadygotten legislation passed keeping us out of certain businesses andchurches. Auntie Z, we called them, had bullied most of the pulse ladensupporters of our causes and had kept us from owning property or beingtreated like human beings. More fantastic than the possibility of an

evil organization kidnapping a pretty girl and a champion of undeadrights was the thought of a reanimant calling the cops.

"What can I do for you then, Reg?""After reporting the incident on 911, the witness decided to

change her mind and not write a statement. She won't talk to officers,won't talk to other detectives and she won't talk to me."

I shook my head and handed him his file. "And you think I'mgonna' do what? Change her mind 'cause I have no pulse? Hey, look,were buddies cause were dead so lets help the police. You must beout of your mind."

"Yeah. Its possible, I guess." It was a weak answer that pissedme off more than the assumption that Id help just because I was afellow goner.

"Where were you when I came looking for help after I woke up," Iasked him, still sitting in my lawn chair in the squalid little box I

called home. "Where were you when they shot at me, tried to burn me andbeat me? Where were you when they forced me back into the cemetery andgave me a crate to live in like an animal? Why would I even considerhelping you in your time of need when you stood by and did nothing tohelp me in mine?"

"Because this girl might still have a pulse, at least for alittle while longer, Jack. Man I knew wouldn't have thought twice abouthelping to find her."

I shrugged and looked up at the ceiling. Corrugated metallooked back at me in shades of rust and black. I looked at Reggie andthe steadily growing crowd that was surrounding us. Most of them hadheard the exchange and the ones who hadn't would hear through channelsbefore long. Pretty girl wanted to help the walking dead and someonemade her go away. My neighbors would be hell to deal with if I didn't

help. Besides, the boredom alone was enough to make me want to die...again. I stood up and gently took the case file out of his hands. Iopened it, flipped down to the original report and laughed at the top ofmy lungs when I saw the witness's name.

"Whats so damned funny?" He snatched the report out of myhand.

"Maude Sellers is a Black Hood," I told him. "She's not goingto talk to anyone that even remotely has a pulse, let alone call thepolice to report a breather missing."

"Well, why don't you see if she'll talk to you?""Stranger things have happened," I said. Popping open the foot

locker, I grabbed my gun and slid it into the waistband on my jeans. Myholster had vanished at some point in the two years I'd been gone. Iclipped the tarnished badge onto my belt next and smiled at the sight.It had been a long time since anything made me feel more thanindifferent and things were already off to a good start.

"What are you doing?" Reg asked, putting an end to the momentaryhigh I'd felt.

"Just because I'm dead doesn't mean I'm not me. This is who Iam, Reggie. Whether the department wants me back or not, I've been thelaw out here for a while now. They don't call the police out here.They call me." It was true, too. If there was a problem, most of thefolks on around here came looking for me to solve it.

With a shrug, we set off to the far end of the district. TheFlatrock Cemetery had encompassed an area about the size of a small


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city. Now, its borders expanded by a couple of square miles, it hadbecome a city of cubicles and tents, trailers and boxes that peoplecalled home. There was also a distinct class society in play thanks inpart to the federal government. When people finally stopped panickingabout the walking dead, they started finding ways to make them moreacceptable. Mannequins became the top class out of all the reanimatedlife being mostly normal looking except for their eyes and over all

complexions. Those were easy enough to fix with cosmetics and contactlenses. Some people even took them out of the district and gave themwork as housekeepers and gardeners, turned them into life size dolls toplay with. Next were the Walkers, my people. We were the middle classAmericans who were slightly less than beautiful in life and were stillthe same in the afterlife. The classic zombie with looser skin and,often times fewer expressions and drives, we weren't much to look at butwe were the majority of what people saw. Last were the Hoods, those whowere so physically disfigured that the federal government had orderedthem to cover themselves so that people couldnt panic at the sight oftheir disfigurements. The darker the hood, the worse off you looked andthe more shunned you became.

Maude Sellers had died at age forty-eight in a car wreck thathad left her maimed and given her the dreaded title of Black Hood. Shelived in the old mausoleum in the cubicle that her husband and children

had placed her in twenty years ago. If there ever was a god, he'd beencruel and unforgiving when it came to Maude and her resurrection. Shewas outside in front of the mausoleum when we approached; stoking thefires in the burn barrel she kept by the door. Folks have to havehobbies and Maude was a bit of a pyro. There were still armed policemenwaiting a safe distance from her, their hands resting on their pistols.Ignorance and fear run deep, especially in the city of the dead andanyone with a pulse gets jumpy once they pass through the gate. Reggiewaved them off as we walked up the hill where Maude was standing. Herdress was wrinkled, dirty and tattered around the sleeves and hips. Herleft leg was still bandaged in the same yellowed rags that had beenwrapped around it when she was laid to rest and the black hood on herface was flapping in the October breeze, giving only the occasional hintof the horror that hid beneath it.

"Go on, Jack," she called. She had a lisp that was made worseby a brain that was permanently scarred by the crash that killed her.The words were hard to form and her thoughts were difficult to maintainin a sentence most of the time. "I never told 'em and should havecalled."

"What?" Reggie whispered."I never should have called and told 'em," I replied, smiling at

her as I walked up to the fire. "You did right by callin', hon, but youneed to tell 'em what you saw."

She shook her head quickly from side to side, stirred the firewith a piece of rebar she'd found. "Nope, shouldn't call the cops.They don't dead the like. They just as Z as Auntie bad."

"They're not as bad as Auntie Z," I said, anticipating anotherquestion from Reggie. "That girl who was taken, she was helping us.She wanted to see us get the treatment we deserve."

She stopped stirring the coals and glared at me through the thinmesh over her eyes. I didn't have a lot of blood left and it was alwayscold but, somehow, that look made me shiver.

"No help for us. Better off dead!" She swung the rebar out ofthe fire, the end glowing orange. "Be in the ground 'cept no room left.Hell's all full and heaven ain't takin' now gets before they gets totakin' you!"

She wasn't making sense but this time it was for all the wrongreasons. Now the connection between brain and mouth was working but thewords coming out were gibberish. I was going to ask her what she meant


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but the thunder stopped me dead in my tracks. Her head popped back anda spurt of blackish red squirted out from the top of her hood. One ofthe patrolmen behind me had seen the rebar come out of the fire andacted on instinct, drawing his pistol and shooting the threat. What hehadn't counted on was the fact that Maude was dead and a bullet to thebrain was only going to lobotomize her, not re-kill her. The moreexperienced of the officers quickly disarmed him as Reggie and I stared

at Maude. Her head was tilted sideways now and her hands were stillclutching the glowing rod as her neighbors slowly shuffled from themausoleum and crates around us.

"How screwed are we?" Reggie asked, moving for his pistol."Depends on your definition of screwed," I told him as I stepped

up beside Maude. "Other side of the mausoleum is a break in the fence.Big enough for a man at a time. Move quick and I'll keep everyone elsebusy."

"Busy?""Old habits die hard," I said. "Two years ago cops were

shooting us in the face out of panic. Lot of folks get mighty touchyabout reliving those days."

"Be at South Precinct tomorrow at nine," he said, clapping me onthe shoulder as he motioned for the patrolmen to run for the fence."Gonna' need your help for sure." He dropped the case file at my feet

and sprinted after the officers. I knew this song and dance, rememberedmost of the steps that went with it too. He was going to get all theglory and I was going to do the actual detective work.

Funny how the more things change, the more they stay the same.


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2There are certain advantages to being dead, not the least of

which is lack of sleep. It gave me ample time to think about the day'sreunion and the case that had been left for me after Id settledeveryones nerves. I spent several hours reading the report, studyingthe limited information that had been gathered. Maude's report of the

kidnapping had happened early in the morning but the girl hadn't beenreported as a missing person until that afternoon when her roommatenoticed she hadn't come home. The two complaints were quickly linkedtogether but something still didn't add up. Maude was a hermit; in partbecause of her social status but in larger part her personality. Evenin life she had been crotchety and disgruntled towards her fellow man.Most of the time she loitered around in the mausoleum, lying in state inthe cubicle she'd been sealed in or knocking about in the empty cryptsand sepulchers near her new home. Occasionally she'd start a fire withsplintered caskets and satin linings but mostly, she stayed in her tomb.Sarah Melton had been abducted near the back side of the district, farfrom Maude's usual stomping ground. I'd have asked her about it had shenot been lobotomized by a rookie cop and his expert shot. The braininjury would heal in a way.

The parts of the lobe left undamaged would eventually activate

and a thought process of sorts would start again but Maude would neverbe quite right again. Not that she had ever been all together to startwith. The rebar she had been stirring the burn barrel with stood out inmy mind. Where had she gotten it? I decided to take a stroll in theautumn night, a light constitutional to the far end of town as it were.I walked between the rows of trailers and portables pressed tight intothe old green fields and hills of the Flatrock Cemetery. It was aharvest moon, full and orange glowing brightly overhead. I smiled andwaved, swapped pleasantries with the other night owls wandering the oldbone yard. We weren't a close knit community but we were friendlyenough to one another. I passed the mausoleum and found three moreHoods standing by the burn barrel, stoking the flames and adding whatkindling they could scrounge together. Friends of Maude, no doubt. Ilooked at the address on the report as I approached the cut in the

fence. Bob's Donut Hut had closed up shop when I was a kid and thebuilding had still been vacant when I died. Now it was roped off withyellow caution tape, construction equipment and supplies were piled deepwith a sign that read "COMING SOON" in large red letters slanting acrossthe white front. Zack's Chicken Shack. Real original, I thoughtsarcastically.

I understood Maude's second guessing. She'd been looting theconstruction site before crews arrive, feeding her pyromaniac needs withwhatever she could carry when she saw the girl abducted. She calledfrom a nearby payphone and then, realizing she might have to admit to acriminal act when police arrived changed her mind. The law was unkindto those of us non-breathers who committed crimes. Not being consideredhuman left us treated like sentient animals. Petty crimes resulted inincarceration in a specially made facility that was little more than alarge, fenced in warehouse on the north side of town. They'd cram"Zombie Malcontents" in by the dozens into storage containers based ontheir sentence and leave them locked away like lost property for theduration of their time. Capital offenders couldn't be given the deathpenalty and instead were placed in a casket and encased in cement sixfeet deep. Only a handful had ever been convicted and sentenced thisway and the public outcry, even among breathers was harsh againstlawmakers who favored it. Maude had already done a month in a crate forburning an abandoned car by the fence; a repeat offender would getdouble the sentence.

Across the street from the up and coming Chicken Shack was Otis


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Ballingers Shell Station. Otis was a paranoid, former survivalist whohad come to town to get away from certain unpleasant accusations that hewould never elaborate on when asked. There were cameras recordingtwenty-four hours a day at every door, pump and corner of the property.At least one of them had to have captured the kidnapping. I took apencil I'd bartered a book for months ago and began scribbling notes onthe back of pages and the folder itself. By sunrise I was halfway to

the precinct and had a plan in place.Joel Hopper was sitting at the front window as I entered South

Precinct and barely noticed me at first. Joel and I had worked theevening shift together when we were starting out. He was a short,slender man with red hair and boyhood freckles that made him look twelveinstead of thirty-two. He had his feet up on the desk, a paper platewith a donut on his stomach as he drank his coffee and read the morningpaper. I walked quietly to the window, slouched my shoulders and slappedmy hand dumbly on the glass.

"Brains!" I yelled. He jumped out of the seat, coffee andsheets of paper flying wildly in the air over him. The chair he'd beenleaning in tilted back and crashed into the floor. Fumbling at hispistol he pulled himself off the ground and stared, wide eyed at methrough the glass.

"That is not fucking funny!" He yelled, giving me the bird as I

cackled. "Sergeant Schaefer told me you'd be coming by." A door to myleft buzzed, unlocked. "He's waiting for you in his office. Fourthdoor on the right."

Then, as an afterthought: "It's good to see you again, Jack."The hallway had a familiar scent of floor wax and coffee that

I'd never expected I'd miss until that moment. Every morning I couldcount on seeing Cookie Wilson standing in the hall near roll call,leaned up against his mop while midnight shift's remaining swallow ofcoffee burned in the pot in the kitchen. The halls were empty now,waiting for the rest of the morning shift to shuffle in and startanother day and the coffee was relatively fresh as it wafted through theair. There was warmth, a homecoming feeling as I walked the familiarcorridor. Reggie's door was standing open and I could hear himwhispering to someone on the phone. I stopped just outside and

listened."I know you don't like it but I need his help," he muttered

angrily. "You ever try and get information from a rotter. List of deadinformants is about as long as my big toe."

"Rotter?" I asked, stepping into the room.Reggie slammed the phone down and looked up at me from his desk.

There was a look of horror on his face as he saw me framing the door.I've been called a lot of things, before and after I died but rotter wasthe sort of word that conjured images. Not the pleasant sort of imagesyou'd like to be associated with but rather the ones that lead to panicand people being shot at by Hill Billy's reading Zombie HunterQuarterly.

"Jack, I can explain."I stared at him, hoping my silence would yield some acceptable

answer."You freak me the hell out," he continued, staring down at a

photo on his desk. "The whole thing freaks me out.""You're right," I told him. "Freaks a lot of people out. Hell,

I'm possibly one of the most freaked out by it. Kinda' scares the lifeout of you when you wake up in a pine box staring at a satin ceiling."

He shook his head. "I know its got to be worse on you than itis me but... its just that, well, I helped carry your casket. I wasthe one doing chest compressions waiting for a bus to show up the dayyou died. I came to grips with losing my best friend and then he justup and reappears out of nowhere. No explanation. No one remembers


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anything. It fucks with your perception of reality.""Well, how's this for a reality check," I said, dropping the

case file and my scribbled notes on the desk. "Maude didn't want totalk because she was stealing from a construction site when she saw theabduction."

There was a look of relief that instantly washed over Reggie'sface as he picked up the file. If what he said was true, he'd tried to

save my life and had been a true friend up until the end. Coping washard and riding his ass about a single word was harsh, at least for thetime being. I figured the least I owed him was a pass.

"Otis Ballingers is across the street," I continued, stillstanding over his desk. "Cameras are always running around that placeso at least one of 'em must have gotten something."

"Great," he said, jumping up from his chair. "Why don't we godown there and see if he'll let us take a look then?"

"We?""You ever tried to make a case in a town where no one can relate

to you?" he asked. "Honestly, I might as well throw it on the pile ofunsolved mysteries in the archives and move on to the next one. I needyour help, Jack. Something in my gut says I'm going to talk to a lotmore of ya'll before this is over with and I'd like someone who knowsthe community helping me out."

"Whats in it for me?" I asked."For the time being, your old job back. I need a partner with

experience and no cop around here has the sort of experience in theCemetery District that you've got. If this works, I might be able topull some strings and get you hired back in somewhere. Janitorial orsomething."

I stopped short of slapping him, though the urge was powerful."Janitorial? Really? Why not neuter me while you're at it?"

"Look, its the best I can do for now," he said. There was atone of sincerity in his voice. He was right, of course. Best I couldhope for was a token post in the department if that much. The dead weredead and folks would have liked nothing better than to keep it that way.The less they had to look at folks like me, the better they felt.

"All right," I said grudgingly. "But lets get three things

straight right now: First, you're going to treat me like a partner, theway you used to. Second, I'm not riding bitch on this one. No handlingme with kid gloves cause you're afraid of how people are going to reactto a dead guy with a badge."

"And what's third?""You even mutter the word rotter again where I can hear it and

I'll make sure you become one."He nodded, and then smiled at me. "Good to have you back,

boss."Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a red arm band. There

was a black biohazard symbol in an orange circle on it. He handed it tome. "Rules are rules," he said sheepishly. "Leave the district andyou've got to let people know that you might be a..."

"Biohazard," I muttered, finishing the sentence. Had to takethe good with the bad I supposed. I was back on the streets, even if itmeant being a pariah it still felt good to be working again.


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3Otis Ballinger hated everyone without exception. Regardless your

color, religion, politics or sex as long as you inhaled oxygen andexpelled carbon dioxide you were inferior in his eyes. His fillingstation had become famous, not only for its policy of selling gas, beer& cigarettes only but also for the surly disposition its owner gave awayfreely and without remorse. Yeah, it was amazing to thing that old Otis

had stayed in business as long as he had and that despite his sourattitude towards everyone and everything the place was packed withpeople buying just gas, beer and cigarettes. Reggie and I had few hopesthat our investigation was going anywhere from this point but it stillseemed the best place to start given our only witnesss currentcondition.

Buy something or get the hell out, the old man yelled over thecounter at us as we walked through the door. An dont even thingbout robbin this place. I got a sawed of twelve gauge and a fat, uglywife and Ill use em both if I have to!

Not interested in the wife, Reggie said, holding his badge ateye level for everyone in the shop to see. I will take a look at thatillegal firearm youve got under the counter, though.

No use for the damned police (pronounced Poe-Lease) either soyou mights well git.

Otis Ballinger was pushing eighty and was as thin and pale asany of the corpses I called my neighbors aside from some sooty patchesof charcoal and oil that stained his skin. His mustache was white atthe tips with a yellow smokers wedge just under his nose from decadesof addiction and what hair was left circled his head from temple totemple in a white wreath that extended into wings over his ears. Ifhed ever known love, compassion or any positive emotion it had beenlong before my time or Reggies and seemed doubtful even this. His facewas permanently snarled into a look of disgust that he gave to everyonehe met. The glare hed fixed on Reggie slow moved with his leather faceacross the small gap between us and focused on me. He studied me for amoment, and then glanced at the glaring red biohazard band around myleft arm. Like a scene from a Doctor Seuss story, something strangebegan to happen to the curmudgeons expression. His hard eyes softened

and his lips receded in a snarl that, if I didnt know any better Imight have called a smile.

No pulse, he said softly.Not even a little, I replied. I didnt know where this was

headed but it seemed promising.Lost my wife a time ago... the good un at least. How long

your ticker been tocked out?Two years.So they jus plant you in the ground and you spring right back

up, eh?Pretty much how it happened, yeah.Well then, what can I do for ya, son?I leaned over on the counter and explained to him about the

case, how Sarah Melton had been abducted and that our only witness was acorpse with a screw loose and a fresh lobotomy. He nodded and followedalong with an uncharacteristic sympathy. Slowly, he limped around thecounter and turned off the neon sign that read open on the front window,then waved us back into the office behind the counter. He poked atbuttons on a newly installed DVR and eventually popped out a CD that heslid into an empty plastic bag and wrapped up with a rubber band inplace of an actual case for the disc. He smiled again, lessenthusiastically, and handed it to me.

Take it, he told me, clapping me on the shoulder as we walkedback to the front of the store. Go find that girl and get er back toer daddy and momma.


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Reggie took the baggy and slid it into his jacket pocket. Wethanked Otis for his help and were about to leave when I turned to himand asked: How is it you like a corpse better than a living person.

I wasnt much for tact anymore and the question threw Reggie assoon as it left my lips. Otis shook his dirty head and stared at hisown feet on the equally dirty green and red tile floor.

I lost my boy in the war, he said, his voice breaking. Some

damn fool from the Army ended up crematin him and his momma dumped theashes in a lake somewhere in Ohio. I might have him back now if...well, you know.

Well get her home, I told him, squeezing his shoulder.Well, either way, you dont be a stranger round here.He turned on the sign, sat back behind the counter and began to

glower as a college kid wandered in to buy beer.That was some good work, partner, Reggie said as we slid back

into the car. It was an unmarked Chevy Impala with one feature the twoof us had never had when we were working together pre-mortem: a laptop.We slid in the disc and began to fast forward through the endless paradeof passing cars and buses. Around five in the morning we saw a younggirl standing by the construction site, taking pictures of somethinginside. It had to have been Maude looting fresh kindling the morning ofthe abduction. We looked at the flier for the missing girl and matched

the description with what we saw on tape. While she was snapping photosa black van slowly crept into the parking lot of Ballingers and stoppedat the number two pump. Two men in hoods and masks jumped out of thecar and rushed the girl, snatching her and her camera and shoved themboth into the back before speeding away. Reggie paused as the vehicleturned out onto the road and cracked a crooked smile.

You see that, he asked, pointing to the bottom of the van.Clear as day. He flipped over to another program on the computer,punched in the license plate number and immediately had an address andthe owners name. Flipping to yet another screen he found a lengthycriminal history on the owner, Delton Cooley. Priors for assault,vandalism and drugs. Things were going too well, I thought but I keptthe notion to myself. Last thing I needed was to ruin our mojo when itwas working this good.

One Ten Sunrise Drive is just around the corner, I said,pointing at the address blinking on the screen. Think it would hurt tosee if anyones home?

Reggie smiled. Im sure hed love the company.To call anything on Sunrise Drive a house would have been a

stretch of the imagination and a liberal use of the word. Most weresingle and double wide trailers with hastily set concrete foundationsand badly constructed porches. A true stereotype of life in the Southmost had over grown yards, chained dogs and at least two vehicles parkedin the overgrowth rusting into oblivion. Mister Cooley had made himselfthe envy of all his neighbors with an old Dodge Charger, baby blue atsome point before decay had set in, standing proudly next to a slantedbird bath in the middle of his yard and the gutters that leaned off andaway from the trailer made a wonderful arch over the weed infestedsidewalk. Now, people who live in storage crates in cemeteries shouldnot throw stones, but I was embarrassed to be seen in front of it. Icouldnt imagine living in it. There was also a familiar looking blackvan parked sideways in the back beside a large, sleeping pit bull.

We parked blocking in the street at the house next door, givingus a small amount of surprise.

You armed, Reggie asked as he pulled the department issuedGlock from his holster. I patted myself down quickly and found myrevolver. He nodded gravely and I could hear the thoughts rollingthrough his head now. He didnt want to call in back up when all he wasdoing was a knock and talk but, at the same time, if this guy had


11/22

kidnapped some girl and was holding her in his house, it would be niceto have someone watching your back with more than six bullets in a gunthat might not even work. Cautiously we walked up the driveway andnavigated the ocean of weeds and debris that littered the yard anddriveway.

Reggie knocked on the door, banging loudly on the screen while Istood at an angle in the driveway. I was watching the back in case

Mister Cooley decided hed rather rabbit than hang around and talk. Thefront door creaked open on its hinges and I saw a familiar look rollacross Reggies face. He waved me over as with one hand whileholstering his gun with the other.

Delton Cooley answered the door in a wife beater, boxers and a9mm hole in the center of his forehead. As quickly as it started, ourluck seemed to have run out.


12/22

4

The only thing that Delton Cooley could articulate as he babbled

and drooled his way into the back of the coroner's van was that a man in

a hat had carjacked him in the driveway. A bit of gray matter and a

shell casing in the gravel seemed to confirm his story. The crime scene

techs were hauling Cooley's van back to the lab but seemed doubtful that

they'd find much in the way of useful evidence. Filthy as is had beenbefore being stolen it looked like a brand new vehicle straight off the

lot. Cleaned, polished and detailed, whoever had taken it had made sure

to leave as few clues as possible for us to follow. With over a hundred

auto body shops and carwashes in town we had plenty of places to look

but nowhere that was going to give us a definite lead. With limited

manpower and no direction, we were getting nowhere fast and Sarah was

running out of time. Reggie was propped up against the car, smoking a

cigarette while he fumbled with his cell phone. His face was contorted

in a familiar mask of pain and stress I'd seen more than a few times

reflected in the mirror back in the day when I had a pulse and a halfway

pleasant disposition. The case was getting the best of him and, given

the way he was clutching the phone, someone upstairs was adding to the

pressure."You all right, partner?"

He shook his head. "Thought we had this in the bag, man," he

said, dropping the cigarette to the ground and snuffing the but under

his heel. "We don't find this girl soon and we're gonna' have to start

looking for a corpse." Then, as an afterthought, "No offense."

I smiled. "None taken," I said as we slid into the car and

started down the road.

"Media's been hounding the precinct all day from what the

captain just told me," he continued. "Looks like they found out about

you, too. They've been asking questions that he doesn't have an answer

for and now he's jumpin' down my neck about it."

"Well, that won't do," I told him. "Just drop me off back at

Flatrock and I'll be out of your way."

He grinned. "You're not the problem, boss," he said as we

pulled into a parking lot. "Lot of folks want to see you back in the

ground, dead or not. They don't like your kind too much. Then again,

there are plenty of us that want to see you get your life back."

"Us? As in, you and others?"

His smile cracked a little wider. "What can I say? Its been

nice working with my partner again. I missed this. Unfortunately,

these vultures," he pointed to the rearview mirror, "don't really care

one way or the other. They just want a story."

I looked up at the mirror and noticed the white van with Channel

Four written across the hood parked on the street behind us. There was

a fat guy holding a video camera in the passenger seat. I tried tothink of it as being in their nature. Journalists and news crews were

going to flock to sorrow and drama the way buzzards went to carrion. It

was no different than men like Reggie and I mistrusting everyone we met,

taking face value as a front for someone's hidden agenda.

"Showed up at the Cooley place while we were still working the

scene," he continued. "Hadn't taken that camera off you since. You

wanna' grab a bite to eat?"

"Nah," I said. "I'll keep you company while you eat though."


13/22

We were sitting in Benson's Cafeteria. It was an unremarkable

little place, about what you'd expect to find in this part of town. It

was an old filling station converted into a restaurant. The gas pumps

had all be yanked up leaving bare concrete islands adrift in the asphalt

sea. The walls were a combination brick-aluminum painted blue and

flaking in places and the windows were poorly tinted with silver bubbles

rippling up at the edges. The pavement leading to the front door wascracked and a few finger length weeds were stretching up towards the

sky, pointing towards the diner. Inside was much the same, cracked

linoleum and tile, barstools and booths and a kitchen that was probably

best left un-thought of. Despite the appearance, the food was greasy,

fattening and probably the most delicious that you'd find any place in

town. The final touch was a sign on the front door. It was a white

circle with a silhouette of a disheveled person and a red X over the top

of that and underneath, in bold, red capital letters: NO ZOMBIES!

"Well, that's classy," I muttered.

"We could go somewhere else," Reggie suggested.

"It'll be like this almost everywhere," I told him. "I'll go

wait in the car, play with that fancy computer in there. You just get

you something good that'll linger on the clothes. I may not eat, but aburger and fries still smell great."

He clapped me on the shoulder and went inside.

Back in the car I started playing with the Mobile Data Terminal

which was just the department's fancy way of saying laptop. They'd been

putting in the rigs to hold these things when I died and, most of the

time, it ended up being a tray to write on or a table top for a quick

meal while we were out on calls. Now, linked to all the police records,

DMV, call logs and criminal history files, I could find anything I

wanted. Flashing back to the day I died, I started my search. There

were hundreds of files from the day but, after what had been an

agonizing hunt and peck session on the keyboard I found the burglary Reg

and I had been working. The next file in the queue was a homicide at

the same apartment complex. The burglary had been open to everyone.

The homicide was password protected. I tried everything I could think

of, birthdays, anniversaries, nicknames and the names of women Reggie

had been seeing when I died. Nothing worked. I was about to give up

when I noticed his phone in the cup holder. He must have forgotten it

when he went inside. I flipped it open and went into his call history

thinking I'd find the name of his current lover and his password.

Instead, I found sunny.

I stared at the name, thinking all the while that this had to be

a mistake. We'd known a Sunny when I was alive but it couldn't be the

same one. Reggie had done some low, even questionable things with his

love life when we were partners working a case but this was beyond

belief. Sunny could have been the name of a guy, a friend or anotherofficer. Could have been a stripper too. He'd dated a few of those

over the years. Truth was, there were any number of possible

explanations but only one made any sense to me as I hit the redial and

called her.

"Hey, babe," a familiar voice answered. I immediately clapped

it shut, threw open the car door and stormed into the diner. Reggie was

bellied up to the bar waiting on his order as I swung the door wide and

strained the hinges. The cook saw me first, coming around the bar


14/22

waving a spatula at me. He was a tall, fat man in a stained white t-

shirt with a rebel flag flying gloriously over the state of Tennessee

printed on the front of it.

"You can't come in here," he yelled.

I ignored him, throwing the phone at Reggie.

"My wife," I shouted at the top of my lungs. "You've spent all

morning getting all buddy-buddy with me while you've been running 'roundwith my wife!"

"First of all," he said, backing away from me as quickly as he

could. "She's Captain Miller's wife now. Secondly, why do you care?"

"Because she's my wife! I vowed until death do us part!"

"Well, it parted you."

"And then it brought me back!"

A hand grabbed me from behind.

"I said, get the hell out," the cook said.

Pivoting on my right heel, I slapped his arm up and then twisted

it around behind him in a goose neck before shoving him face first into

the counter. I leaned my face down and brought it within a few inches

of his, locking eyes as I did.

"Listen here, bubba," I growled. "The adults are having aconversation here. I'll leave when I'm good and damned ready and not a

second before. You trackin' me?"

He shook his head in acknowledgement and, with an added shove of

his ribs into the counter's edge, I let him go. He fell to his knees

and crawled quickly back into the kitchen. Meanwhile, Reggie had made

it back into the parking lot and was halfway to the car. I swung the

door open, satisfied by the crack I'd now put in the No Zombies sign and

raced to the car. He slammed the driver's door shut and clicked the

locks.

"I trusted you," I shouted, banging on the hood of the car.

Amid the tapestry of obscenity and anger being woven with every syllable

I uttered, that one phrase silenced our world. Slowly, Reggie pulled

himself out of the car and looked at me.

"I lost my best friend," he said, his voice trembling as the

words came to his lips. "The man that taught me how to do this job, my

mentor and my brother all in one and I had to plant him in the ground.

His wife, your wife and I were the only two people who even came close

to understanding that pain. Without you, we only had each other. I did

what I thought you would have wanted. I loved her. In all that

commiseration we fell in love and even after Miller swooped in and

blindsided her with that marriage, she still comes to me when she wants

comfort. Someone had to take care of her and I've been doing my best."

Pushing myself off the car I folded my arms behind my head and

took a few steps back. I'd been angry about a lot of things since

coming back to the world of the living. Losing my wife, my job, myentire life... but I'd never taken a moment to think about what others

had lost when I died. Reggie was right, he and Sunny had both lost

something and, as much as I hated to think about it, had probably found

something in their grief. I was dead and she wasn't. She had moved on

with her life, in large part thanks to Reggie. It was something I

needed to do. What happened next should have been a frank discussion

between adults, a sharing of feelings and thoughts hashed out between

two old friends. It would have been the mature thing.


15/22

"I'll talk to you tomorrow, Reggie," is what I said instead,

walking down the sidewalk back towards the district.

The fat guy with the camera was standing in the parking lot,

blocking my path and standing dangerously far inside my personal bubble.

As a rule, you should stay at least three or four feet away from someone

when you talk to them. Instead, he and his camera were a foot or less

from my face trying to record all the intimate details of my littletantrum.

"Thats a nice camera," I told him, trying to mask the anger

that was still seething inside me. "I used to do a lot of AV stuff when

I was in high school. Like riding a bike, you know? You never really

forget. Would you mind if I looked at it?"

The poor guy was as dumb as he was fat. Without a thought he

handed me the camera. I fumbled with it for a minute, pretending I

understood anything about how it worked and what all the various buttons

did. He started to move

, to show me how to use it. I heard the bus coming down the road and,with a sort of grace I never knew when I was alive, I tossed it into the

road. There was a satisfying crunch as the lense, and everything elsewas rolled under the wheels of the bus."Sorry about that," I lied as the tears welled up in his eyes.

I hiked my thumb at Reggie who had watched the whole exchange. "I hearthat guy over there is a cop. Maybe he can take a report or something."

Casually, I walked away.


16/22

5

Sunshine Harris had been the most unusual and beautiful woman

I'd ever known. Her parents were hippies who succeeded in raising a

free spirited and care free daughter who find life and energy in

everything. Long, strawberry blonde hair fell in ringlets over sun

freckled shoulders and in front of her blue eyes. Even in the winter

you'd find her in a long skirt and sandals because she wanted to feel

the snow between her toes when she walked outside. She never knew a

stranger in the ten years we were married and always had a kind word and

a story to share whenever she met someone new. With a smile and a kind

word she had held at bay all the negativity and anger that I'd brought

to our marriage thanks to the job and was truthfully my better half.

Sunny was my whole life, my reason for getting up every morning and

doing the job I did to try and keep her safe.

Sitting alone that night I couldn't get her out of my mind.

Remembering her smile, flashing from gentle to horrified as she saw me

standing on the front porch after being buried was a nightmare. It took

an hour of her whacking me in the head with an umbrella before I wasable to convince her that I wasn't interested in doing harm but, in the

meantime I'd watched the loving, gentle soul I'd fallen in love with

descend into an uncharacteristic violence. The conversation that

followed had been stilted and had ended with her asking me to leave. I

knew that our world, that perfect dynamic we'd shared was gone forever.

For all her open minded philosophies and spiritualism, she'd closed

herself off to the idea of continuing a life with me. It was depression

and, without sleep or the dubious comforts of alcohol and drugs I found

myself forced to deal with the memories and the pain attached to them.

It took a few hours of the torture, staring at the black, lightless

ceiling before I pried myself from the chair and went for a walk.

Long walks on cool autumn nights had been a comfort to me once.

I could relax and clear my head, shake loose any raw emotions muddling

my thoughts as I sorted through the affairs of my life. Now it only

added to the depression. Walking through a cemetery had never been a

festive experience but now, littered in shipping crates and shacks like

a third world slum it was a walk of shame that added to the troubles I

was trying to out run. No one talked to you as you passed, we had all

been conditioned over the last couple of years to feel that we were an

aberration, a cancer that had infected polite society and ruined a way

of life for the rest of the world. There were no stars above us, only a

pale orange light shining up from the city and reflecting off the white

clouds as they floated lazily overhead. Sirens echoed in place of

nightingales and made me long for the days when this badge had meant

something. A cop, a detective, I'd caught the bad guys and seen to itthat criminals paid for the crimes they committed. Now, the only badge

that anyone cared about was the red biohazard band around my arm. It

was my scarlet letter that fostered the belief that I was an abomination

worse than the criminals I'd put away once.

Maude Sellers was up and about, much sooner than I'd expected.

There was still a fresh hole in her hood but she'd made sure to keep the

rest of her face hidden so no one could see the disfigurements. She was

busy at her burn barrel, stoking the flames with a stolen piece of


17/22

rebar. I walked up to stand by the fire for a while. She barely

noticed me at first, giving me only the occasional glance. The flames

were licking up at our chests as our shadows danced on the mausoleum

behind us. There were other fires in the district, flickering in

patches between the rows with other silhouettes swelling and shrinking

with every whip of the light.

"They come again," Maude muttered. "They come for me. Soonthey come for you."

I stared at her for a moment. She'd been freshly lobotomized by

some rookie's gun yesterday morning and now, now she talking the same

gibberish she'd been spouting before the shot as if the damage were

healed.

"Who, Maude," I asked, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Who do

you think is coming for us?"

I hate to admit it but, even dead as I am, I still find myself

creeped out a little by other walkers. She lifted a gloved hand and,

uneasily pointing at the fence near the mausoleum said, "The old man in

the hat... he brings them."

The fence began to rattle and slowly peel where the rip was.

Three men in black suits stepped from the sidewalk outside to the muddygrass and looked up at us. All three had painted their faces to look

like skulls and one of them was wearing a tall, battered black hat. I

turned to ask Maude who they were but she'd vanished, retreating into

the mausoleum for what little safety it might provide. The hat man

pointed at me and his two cronies went running. I grabbed for my pistol

and swore as my palm slapped bare skin and denim. I'd left the damned

thing sitting in my foot locker. With little choice I grabbed the rebar

from the burn barrel and swung the glowing orange tip at the first of

the skull faced assailants. It caught him on the neck and, screaming,

he fell to the ground and rolled down the hill into the district. The

smell of burning skin filled the air and brought with it the unpleasant

memory of an arson cased I'd worked years ago. The memory vanished as

soon as the second skull man punched me in the jaw. Now, a hit that

hard would have sent me flying unconscious into the dirt when I was

alive. Now, it twisted my jaw up a little and pissed me off even more.

I swung my weapon up, catching him in the jaw before my knee made

contact with his groin followed quickly by a second strike across his

back that left him doubled over in the grass.

The hat man was smiling at me through his makeup, pointing a

Glock pistol at my face. On a reflex I dove behind the burn barrel,

listening as the first few shots went wide. It was only after a burning

coal jumped out of a bullet hole and landed on my shoulder that I

thought of two fundamental flaws in my plan. First, the burn barrel was

soft metal and on fire, making for poor cover. Next, I was dead. What

was he going to do; kill me? I grabbed the rebar post and hurled itlike a javelin at him. Lucky shot, it landed on his shoulder and

knocked the gun out of his hands. By now his cronies had pulled

themselves together and were running for the fence. He joined them,

leaving the gun laying on the ground. I grabbed it as he was squeezing

through the hole in the fence and made my shot. It went wide and

sparked off a fence post as the three made there get away. Walking back

to the light of the barrel, I turned the pistol on its side to read the

serial number. The first three letters were MPD, a specialized tag that


18/22

the department's armorer and gunsmith had applied to all the service

weapons. Whoever tried to re-kill me was a cop.

I tucked the pistol in my waistband and walked back to my shack.

My night had sucked, but not as bad as Reggie's morning would when I

showed him this.


19/22

6

Reggie smiled when I put the gun on his desk the next morning.

It was a short lived joy as I recounted the story of my evening and how

I came across the gun.

"This is no good," he said, shuffling through some papers on his

desk.

"Tell me about it," I said, plopping down in a chair across from

him. "If he'd been a better shot I might have gotten a lobotomy last

night."

"No," he said, shoving a report in front of me. "Miller just

threw this on my desk about twenty minutes before you got here.

Briggins, the rookie who shot Maude the other day just got a day off for

reporting his gun stolen. Said someone smashed in his car window and

stole it out of his personal vehicle."

"Why leave your gun in you POV?" I shook my head at the thought.

It was stupid to leave a firearm where anyone could see it and grab it,

especially if you were a cop. "That sounds like a load of shit to me,

Reg. Think you can get him back up to the station?""You think he was the one shooting at you last night?"

"I think I'd know if I saw him."

He nodded and got up from the desk. "Let me walk down to

captain's office and see what I can do."

A trip that should have taken a few seconds became several

minutes. Boredom took control and before I knew it I was rummaging

through Reggie's desk and his case load. The picture on his desk was of

the two of us after a drug bust a few years ago. We were sitting

together filling out evidence slips with twenty pounds of marijuana

stacked up around us, cheesing for the camera. Thats when I noticed

the red folder sitting under it. Reggie had a habit of throwing a

regular case file in a colored folder. Red was homicide. The date

printed on the edge was the same as the day I died. There was no dust

on it and the bottom was worn from constantly being opened. I slid it

out from under the picture and was about to open it when Reggie came in

and snatched it out of my hands.

"I thought I told you to stay put," he said, shoving the folder

in a desk drawer.

"Nope," I answered, leaning on the desk. "You said you were

going to the captain. Thats a homicide case... whose is it?"

"Just drop it, Jack," he snapped. "We've got something else

going right now. Captain called Briggins. No answer. I've got an

address and permission to go get him if I need to. Up for a field

trip?"

"Sure," I said, grinning. "Soon as you tell me who's case itis.

"Were you always this big a pest or did this happen post

mortem?"

"Just me, baby. Just me."

Reggie shrugged his shoulders and looked down at his hands.

"Its yours, Jack." The answer was quiet, almost choked coming up from

his throat.

"Mine? Why? I thought you caught the little bastard who hit me


20/22

with the crowbar?"

He bit his lower lip and put his hands behind his head. "Feel

the back of your head, Jack. Base of the skull."

I ran my fingers from the crown down until my pinky slipped

across a dimple.

"What the hell is that?"

"Stippling," Reggie said. "Small caliber, probably a .22 orsomething."

"But I thought the crowbar..."

"Dropped you," he interrupted. "Didn't kill you. You flat

lined on the bus ride to the ER. Whoever popped you did it then.

Ambulance service couldn't find a record of the transport and the

coroner said the COD was blunt force trauma to the skull. Its like

they overlooked the bullet hole during the autopsy. I tried to

investigate it but they yanked me from the case. Said I was too close.

They threw it to Grubbs and he was working it until last May when he ate

his own licorice."

"That ain't right, Reggie."

"I know, partner. Thats why I'm still working it."

"No," I told him, undoing my shirt to show the unnamed skinunderneath. "No incisions. No one did an autopsy on me."

We sat in silence for a few minutes, marveling over what we'd

just shared. All these years, I'd assumed the kid with the crowbar had

done me in, brain aneurysm or something like that. I'd never said

anything to make Reggie believe I knew different. Now, everything I'd

thought about my life, or at least the end of my life, was in question.

Who wanted me dead? Reggie could see the wheels turning in my head,

almost psychically read my thoughts and said, "One mystery at a time,

Jack. Lets find Briggins and the girl and then we'll work your case."

The car ride to Briggins apartment was quiet, awkward after the

revelation that I'd been murdered not as the result of a robbery but

some larger plot against me. I knew I'd pissed off a few folks in my

day and, yes, more than a few of them had told me to drop dead I just

never knew anyone actually wanted to snuff me. Knocking against the

first speed bumps as we pulled into the apartment complex shook me from

my thoughts and brought my mind to focus. It was dark but I didn't need

the light to give me identification. The look would be written on his

face, surprise and horror at his intended victim showing up on his door

step. I'd know him if he was it. We parked beside his vehicle, a light

blue Chevy pickup with a smashed driver's window. The GPS and the

stereo were still in the car, a dead giveaway that he was lying. A

thief doesn't take a gun out of a cop's car and leave the rest of his

gear or his personal affects inside. He also does some vandalism,

slashed tires or key scrapes in the paint. After all, it is a cop's

car. We walked up the stairs to Briggins apartment and knocked on thedoor. It was unlocked, cracked and opened just a hint as Reggie

knocked.

"That's a bad sign," he said, un-holstering his gun. "Follow

me."

I put a hand out to stop him. "I'll go first," I said. "After

all, I'm not really worried about getting shot."

He nodded his agreement. I drew my pistol and slowly pushed

open the door. The living room/kitchen was dark and, with all the


21/22

blinds down there were only a few stray fingers of sunlight coming into

the room. I flipped the switch as I entered the room and stopped in my

tracks. Blood was pooling in the living room carpet, dripping from

under a sheet on the futon. Ignoring it for a moment, Reggie and I

swept the single bedroom and bathroom before circling back to what

promised to be a bloody scene. Grabbing the sheet at either end we

lifted it off and into the floor. A body, pale white and in the tornremnants of a uniform was sprawled across the couch. There were symbols

carved into his chest and stomach and deep gashes running uup from his

wrists to his elbows. Where his head should have been there was only a

familiar looking hat with a note pinned to it.

"Your soul for his."

It was written in blood, presumably Briggins' own and pinned to

the hat with a thin shard of bone.

"Well, this sucks," I said as Reggie stepped into the breezeway

to vomit.

Twenty minutes later the apartment was buzzing with more

uniforms, detectives and crime scene techs than you could hope for.

Briggins' cell phone was on its way to the crime lab to be analyzed.

They'd pull his call log, texts, anything he'd ever snapped a photo orsent a message over would be run under a microscope by a dozen techs and

detectives for any clues about what had happened. Reggie was busy ready

the rookie's HR file that had been graciously raced over to us by

Captain Miller. Carl Briggins was a twenty-six year old New Orleans

transplant. When Katrina had tried to wipe out the Crescent City,

Briggins had moved to Nashville. There was little to nothing about what

he'd done down there, only that he wanted to be a cop and had graduated

at the top of his class at the academy.

"I don't get it," Reggie said. "He was a good kid, good

officer... I don't understand who would do this to him."

I'd only been halfway listening to him as he ponder the more

philosophical questions about Briggins' life and death. Putting aside

the horror of decapitation, an unlife trapped forever as a non-verbal

living head skeeved me out, I was interested in his book case. Small

compared to the DVD and video game library stacked beside the

television, most of his books had a central theme. I grabbed two and

turned to Reggie.

"You want to know what got him into this mess?"

Reggie, along with most of the people in the room turned to look

at me. "Lets start with The Serpent and the Rainbow and move on to

Practical Voodoo," I said, waving the books back towards the case.

"Twelve books and they all center on Voodoo, zombies and the occult."

"You think he got into something that was way over his head?"

Reggie asked.

I stifled my laughter and nodded. Back alley voodoo had becomepopular since the mass resurrections began. Suddenly, any nut job that

had seen White Zombie thought he could hypnotize a corpse into doing his

bidding. This wasn't to say that genuine voodoo, at least the darker

kind with bakurs and "zombie powder" hadn't become a dangerous and

growing fad around towns with big cemeteries, but we were definitely

looking at something out of the ordinary now. Voodoo or not, someone

was running around with a quasi living skull and, I was willing to bet


22/22

they knew where Sarah Melton was.

Documents

Cemetery District 1-6