Wake Up Dead - an Undead Anthology

by Suzanne Robb

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ Asked Alan, a perplexed look upon his face. He had only been gone for a matter of minutes.

  Alan cupped Frank’s hands to see the extent of the damage, but before he could lift the shirt away from Frank’s hands, Frank threw his hands down. The shirt fell onto the floor where it mingled with the spilt coffee. Before Alan could react, Frank was already in front of Quinn, his hands fumbling to get a grip of Quinn’s face.. A finger on one cheek, a thumb on the other. The fingers pressed in hard, until Quinn’s lips puckered and his teeth gritted. Alan didn't have time to act. Frank raised his bloody hand and struck Quinn in the face. Quinn’s head snapped back as the blow connected. It was difficult to tell whose blood had been spilt.

  ‘C’mon now, Frank, that’s enough! How we going to explain that?’

  ‘That’s easy, Alan…He tripped and fell into the table.’

  ‘The tape, Frank. This is not how we police!’

  ‘We can edit. Anyway, this moon-howler is gonna pay one way or another…and I have just the thing.’

  Frank rubbed his bloodied knuckles, he bent down to pick up the shirt. As he looked at his hand, it burned.

  Quinn snapped his head forward, wiping the blood from his mouth. He hoped that his teeth were still intact. Before he could grasp his bearings, he felt Frank's shovel-like hands upon the back of his collar.

  ‘This interview is over.’ said Frank as he picked Quinn up like a rag-doll.

  ‘Whoa, whoa Frank! Try to be at least a little gentle. Where are you taking him?’

  As the tips of his shoes scraped against the floor, Quinn allowed himself a secret smile. He kept his mouth shut; there was no point catching another beating.

  ‘Where are you taking him, Frank?’ Alan asked again.

  ‘Well, Alan, remember our old friend, the biker?’ said Frank, with a cold flat tone.

  ‘Crazy-Eight? No, not him…’ Alan wanted to stop him, to halt him from his own madness. Alan knew deep down he was no physical match for a man of Frank's size.

  ‘No such luck, but we got one of his crew behind bars.’

  ‘We can’t put Quinn in with one of them. Those bikers should be behind rubber walls, not iron bars.’

  ‘Maybe Quinn might just learn not to screw with the law, more importantly, not to screw with me,’ hissed Frank.

  Alan took hold of Quinn’s arm firmly, not enough to cause discomfort. He looked Quinn up and down,

  noticing he was still wearing a belt. His eyes opened as if they were jack in the boxes.

  ‘Now who’s the killer, Frank?’ Alan dropped his head downward, almost as if the solution was written upon the floor somewhere. ‘I want nothing to do with this. This is going too far. He’s just a kid, nobody deserves to be treated like this. It’s inhumane, Frank.’

  He let go of Quinn’s arm patted him on the back. ‘Sorry kid. Let's hope you make it to the morning. I wish I could have been of more help.’ Alan’s voice was full of remorse, that same emotion was echoed across his rugged features. Alan gave Quinn one more look. There was no more he could do, Frank had the luck of the devil. His career was veiled in Teflon when it came to bending and breaking rules. He had seen others try to bring Frank down, only for them to leave in his place. Some were never heard from again. In Alan’s view of the world, it was a cruel place where even the innocent got punished.

  ‘Alan,’ said Frank, grabbing Quinn's arm.

  ‘We catch killers, not help to kill. I want nothing to do with this. I’ve turned a bind eye to a lot things over the past, not this though. I want no part of this…’ interrupted Alan.

  A pained look stretched across Frank's face. ‘I’ll write the report the way that will keep us clean.’

  Alan shook his head in disappointment, taking a deep look into Franks eyes. He could not look into them for long. He never wanted to be this cop. A little hard, he had to be. Too much kindness was taken as a weakness.

  Once Alan was partnered with Frank, little innocent Alan fell down the rabbit hole into Frank’s dark world. Truth was, Alan feared his partner.

  Alan turned his back, his feet carried him along not aware his was even moving, the final nerve had snapped. Frank called out. Alan ignored him. He walked away as if a he was a ghost wandering away into the crowds of faceless criminals and forgotten justice. Frank knew deep down that Alan would return to the fold; men like him always did. It was a shame, though. Frank thought his efforts to groom an apprentice had been working. Frank took comfort in the fact there was no dramatic handing in of the gun and badge, or maybe that was worse? Maybe he would go home and dwell upon it, only to discover a detailed report on the desk in the morning.

  Regardless of this, Frank planned a way of covering his tracks. He held tight to his quarry.

  ‘So are you going to show me to my room Francis?’ asked Quinn.

  Frank chuckled, his eyes narrowed. The little crows' feet crinkled at the corners of his eyes.

  ‘Room? I look forward to finding your corpse in the morning. I’ve got somebody I want you to meet. You know what? I’ll leave it a couple of days before I notify your relatives.’ Frank continued to chuckle as if entertained by his own threatening wit. Quinn gave no resistance as Frank led him out of the room, down the narrow hallways. Past the ladies of the night who felt there was nothing wrong in cash for companionship, their underwear looser then their morals.

  Quinn wondered as to just how much time he had left; he could already feel that supernatural strength lent to him by his maker begin to fade. The quiet urges in his gut had fallen beneath a melody of near silence. The only true answer to his question could be found within his own death.

  Suicide or being murdered, whichever came first there would be a solution to his miserable existence as he knew it. Quinn ignored all the wild and inventive threats uttered by Frank. He closed his eyes in tiny intervals, imagining a life after tonight. The cell was as barren as the great deserts of Egypt, with all the charm of an abattoir. Quinn wished he had asked more questions, just something more to prepare him. Yet again, the eternal enemy of time was apparent. Maybe if he was lucky it would be his friend, then he could watch it pass without the worry of leaving the beauty of this world.

  In the corner of this grey concrete hell sat his bunk-buddy for the duration. He spoke through gritted teeth, the rotten yellow tombstones of his mouth disgusted Quinn.

  ‘You mother-, I’m gonna suck out ya’ eyeballs and skull-fuck you.' The spittle sprayed as the man spoke, little drops of venom in every word. Frank allowed himself a wider smile then before. His dry thin lips stretched over his teeth. His tobacco burnt breath offended Quinn’s sense of smell. Quinn pulled his head to one side to avoid the scent of Frank’s putrid breath.

  ‘Play nice now,’ replied Frank as he grabbed Quinn’s arm tighter, until he was sure that it would leave a nice spiteful bruise. He pinched at the soft skin of Quinn’s underarm, nipping at the flesh between thumb

  and forefinger. Much to Frank’s dissatisfaction, Quinn

  gave no response, not even a small recoil of his arm.

  Frank shoved Quinn into the cell, closing the door behind him. The door shut with an empty clang, denying the freedom of those within for another night. Frank had to take comfort in the fact that, while he did not leave the nasty bruise as he wanted,. he was at least the catalyst of a night of suffering for Quinn.

  Quinn stood silently before the door, his nails no longer growing. The cogs of his brain were turning uncomfortably, and all that remained was the strong urge to die and the means to do so.

  With the door now firmly shut, down the hall away from the confinement of the cells and shouts of abuse the cops of the day-shift clocked off for the night, exchanging tired greetings in the forms of nods and grunts with the night-shift cops. Frank was amongst those cops; a tiring night he had endured. The comfort of his one bedroom apartment beckoned. It would only be a matter of time before he could retire properly to the Florida Keys. The home of which was paid
for by kickbacks, broken fingers and turning the odd blind eye for the right government official. Shit truly ran downhill, from the top of the pyramid to the reeking gutters.

  *

  Frank had only made a couple of stops on his way home. Another visit to the old Chinese man who complained of the pain in his fingers and how it had cost him work. Frank offered no sympathy, leaving the old man with a cold warning about keeping up such payments. There were, after all, worse people out there. They would not offer the protection he would. His last visit was to the ladies of the night who stalked the kerbs to make a living, but even then he could not rid his thoughts of Alan.

  More to the point, he was concerned about the self-righteous rant he would get from Alan. If only Alan would have listened, there was money to be made. You never saw a rich cop, yet you always saw a rich criminal. It had been some time since he had left the police station, and his cellphone had not rung once. There was some comfort in that thought. A pang of regret struck the bell within his soul, it did not chime for the inhumanity of leaving a man in the prison cell with a maniac. It was the fear of Alan reporting him for his decision. Was he culpable for the pain that Quinn would inevitably suffer? Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't.

  Frank tossed the thought over in his mind; he could not be there all the time to keep the peace. He could not be held responsible for others' actions. He had gotten away with everything so far. At least now, for the moment, he could rest easy. Frank felt once his head eventually hit the pillow, his problems would disappear momentarily.

  For Frank, this was the most wonderful thing since the dirty green cash first began to fall into his hands. Traffic was heavy tonight; rain began to make its gentle pitter-patters upon his window screen. The windscreen wipers kicked lazily into action, and the gentle rubber squeaking relaxed him. There was a kind of peace between the rain and the road, a stark contrast to the other motorists honking their horns in anger in a hurry to get home.

  Taking his hands off the wheel, Frank reached into the glove compartment. He took off his beaten and scratched digital watch and exchanged it for another. He watched the stuck traffic for signs of movement as he put the new watch on. He brought his wrist up to his chest. The Rolex glimmered in the soft glow of rear lights of those ahead.

  He would be home soon.

  He placed his hand back on the wheel, his foot ready to hit the gas as the traffic moved finally forward. The traffic slowly became less congested, the cars now free to run to their respective destinations. The honks of frustrated drivers drifted into silence, only to be replaced by the gentle rumbles of engines. Frank put his foot down on the gas. He watched the store-fronts and tenement buildings as he passed. All was quiet on the western front. People milling round their daily business. Safe, happy. This would not do, Frank felt a call was needed to shake things up. The proprietors needed to realise why they paid him so much. Just as they, he had a business to run. Frank had vandals and strong-arms to keep them in line, and to keep them blackmailed was a full time job in itself. They got to keep their freedom and got to make a little money for themselves. It was winners all round. At a small cost, of course.

  After a couple of miles passed, he finally reached his destination. He pulled into the car-park of his tenement building.

  Home at last.

  He twisted the key in the ignition; the engine fell silent. Frank sat for a moment, head tucked into his chest. Taking a deep breath, he ejected his seatbelt. He opened the car door and heaved himself out.

  The rain still pattered lightly with threats of getting heavier. Pulling his cell from his pocket, Frank noticed he had missed a couple of calls from both the station and Alan.

  Too late now; he was home. Whatever was wanted from him would have to wait until the morning. For now, the warmth and comfort of his bed beckoned him, maybe a little whiskey would make the night just that little nicer, a little easier.

  Just then, his phone vibrated. Looking down at his cell Frank muttered, ‘Geez, Alan, you're gonna have to wait like a good boy.’

  Frank was too tired now to worry about the concerns of his partner. Perhaps Alan changed his mind. Maybe he'd realised that he could not fuck with the infinite. After all, it was just balance, karmic in nature almost. Frank was just making sure it worked in his favour.

  The clean air made him realise just how tired he was; two jobs would do that to a man. He dragged his body upwards to his sparsely furnished apartment, his feet felt heavy and ached. Frank unlocked his front door and flung it shut after he entered. He threw his keys onto the stand by the door. Frank tossed himself into his big tattered chair. He reached over to the coffee table to grab his whiskey bottle and poured himself a glass. As the glass touched his lips, Frank’s cell phone rang Again. He cussed and sighed as he flicked the phone open.

  ‘What now? Can’t you boys take a piss without needing me?’

  ‘Alan’s tried to ring you, we’ve tried to ring you. Frank you're needed here now.’ replied the firm voice.

  ‘Why?’ asked Frank as he tried to keep his voice as casual as possible. His mind was burning with excitement, maybe the biker had done his job after all.

  ‘Your attention is needed regarding two of the people you brought in tonight.’

  Frank gave a heavy sigh before giving a reply.

  ‘Why? What is so bad, that I am needed down there? I’ve just sat down after an eighteen-hour shift. My feet are killing me. I’m tired, I―’

  ‘Your prisoners. Alan went down there to check on them. He found the biker and the other guy…dead. Alan’s not happy, It’s a mess down there.’

  Frank brought the glass to his lips, the amber liquid warmed his throat as it travelled down. Frank wiped his lips with the back of his hand before he spoke.

  ‘Okay, okay. Tell me what happened so I know what to expect.’

  ‘You really should be down here seeing for yourself. Forensics cannot make a move until you are here. But seeing as Alan’s on his way he can tell you.’

  ‘Tell me now!’ barked Frank.

  ‘Okay, okay. From how it looks, it seems that the biker has been beaten to death. I mean he was almost beyond recognition, I don’t think even god would have recognised him. The only way we could identify him was by his gang tattoos. An―’

  ‘The biker's dead?’ Frank could not believe what he was hearing. Weren’t bikers supposed to be big and tough? Frank thought bikers punched out teeth for a living.

  ‘Yep. Not just that, the other guy has hung himself from the bars by his belt. He’s swinging like damn piñata, there must have been one helluva fight. Quinn had long deep lacerations to his face and hands. We can’t cut him down for further examination till you get here. Somebody really dropped the ball. Get down here as soon as, Frank, we nee―’

  Frank closed the phone before the conversation could run any further. The cogs in his turned into over gear. How was he going to explain this one? Who could he pitch the blame on? He should have just let it go. His hatred for Quinn was a mystery to even him. He had to get a grip of himself. Things were slipping. He might as well have been greased up and sent down a steep hill. That was how fast he felt things were slipping. Frank paced the small apartment from one end to the other. Never before had he had a prisoner die like this, let alone two. In the past people had caught beatings, in Frank's mind everyone took a beating at some time. Some even ended up on the back of milk cartons. They decided to live that criminal life, it came with the territory.

  All he had wanted was his piece of the action. He was in the tightest spot he had ever encountered in his career and there had been some real tight ones. Before, if somebody ever had to disappear, he took a vacation to Vegas where the desert had no memory. Nobody ever pulled over a cop.

  He walked back over to the table on which the whiskey sat, and poured himself another glass. The whiskey flowed into the glass, swirling around as it hit the bottom. Before it had any real chance to settle, Frank shot his arm upwards, glass in hand, down the hatch it w
ent. Then another and another. With enough whiskey in his body to settle his nerves, he took a cigarette and placed it in his mouth. A knock at the door reported around the room as he tried to light his cigarette.

  ‘Hang on, I’ll be there in a second.’ shouted Frank.

  He wondered who the hell it was; there were only two or three people who came to his door nowadays. None of them were welcome at this point, if they ever were in the first place. The knock came again.

  ‘Hang on, I’m putting on some pants.’ he lied.

  He made sure he had everything he needed. Gun, badge and a collective of well thought through plans and

  excuses. If they mentioned the smell of alcohol, he

  would reply; I was at home, relaxing. Why? How do you

  relax after your shift? No, you're right. It is none of my business. So why ask me? There was no way they were going to plant his drinking as the cause of all of this.

  The knocking came again.

  ‘Fuckin wait will ya!’

  Frank approached the fish-eye lens of his door. It was like looking through a drunken telescope. At first there was a flicker of a shadow; there was movement somewhere out there.

  ‘Who is it?’

  No reply came, just the whistle of the wind and patter of rain.

  ‘Who is it? You’ve been knocking on my door long enough.’

  Before he could walk away and get back in his seat, Alan came into view. His entire body was out of proportion in the fish eye lens, little head and large body. Frank's shoulders slumped, heavy sigh followed. Great. Here he was to wax lyrical in his self-righteous way about the evils of corruption. Frank considered himself lucky that Alan had not ratted on him. So at least Frank could invite him in, give him a drink and explain everything. Well, everything with a few lies intertwined with nuggets of truth.

  He opened the door. Alan stood there, face sullen. Rain dripped off his coat onto the floor by the door. Frank would have greeted him with a used car salesman’s smile, but now was not the time to act pleased.