In Case of Carnage

by Gerry Griffiths

  Blood dripped onto the top step, leaking out the end of a length of chrome handrail that had impaled the man through the ribcage. A steel screened partition separating the driver’s seat from the passenger compartment had been forcibly bent forward and left hanging cockeyed on its hinges.

  Hank ascended the steps, careful not to tread on the blood. He shined the light in the passenger compartment, then swept it to the left side of the aisle and over the first two sets of empty seats with a missing handrail. Then he swept to the next two rows, pointed the beam at the back seat by the emergency exit door, and returned the light back up to the front on the other side.

  A woman screeched in his right ear.

  Hank jumped back, slamming against the steel partition.

  The loud cry faded.

  “Hank!” Bill hollered down. “You okay?”

  Hank turned to the source of the sound: a small TV and DVD player mounted on the mesh behind the driver’s seat. On the screen, people shuffled single file across a fallen log in the dark. They either stumbled into a stream or into the waiting jaws of zombies on the shore.

  “It’s just a movie they were watching!” Hank answered back.

  The image flickered off. It flashed back on, obviously malfunctioning because of the crash.

  Hank turned off the player.

  A DVD case rested on top of the player. A screaming woman with big frizzy hair embellished the cover. An ensemble of enraged characters armed with primitive weapons and guns surrounded her. The title read: Zombie Island Massacre.

  Hank backed out of the minibus. He climbed to the car.

  “Anyone in there?” Bill asked.

  “Only the driver. He’s dead.”

  “Didn’t his airbag go off?”

  “Someone bashed his head in. You’d better call it in.”

  “Already tried.” Bill held his cell phone up in the air, staring at the small screen. “No reception out here.”

  “Maybe there’s a house up the road. We can use their phone.”

  They returned to the car.

  A mile up, they found a two-story house overlooking a small lake. A string of shale steps led to a front porch with a wraparound redwood deck.

  Hank knocked on the front door. The hinges creaked as the door opened a few inches. He crouched, drew his backup gun from his ankle holster. Bill took out his revolver.

  “Hello?” Hank squeezed past the door. “We’re the police! There’s been an accident down the road. We’d like to use your phone!”

  No one answered.

  Hank turned to Bill. “Does this feel right to you?”

  Bill shook his head.

  The detectives stepped into a large living room.

  Bill walked over to an end table. He looked down at the empty cordless phone dock. “Phone’s gone.”

  Hank looked across the room.

  On a big screen TV over the fireplace mantel, a football game played with the sound muted. A sectional couch faced the hearth. A person sat at the far end, head bouncing like a sports player bobblehead doll.

  Bill stepped toward the couch. “Didn’t you hear—”

  A bloody hand appeared, its glistening red fingers kneading into the top cushion.

  The detectives raised their guns.

  A gruesome face rose, smeared with gore.

  “Hands where we can see them!” Bill yelled.

  The man snarled like a rabid dog, his face and shirt slick with blood. He sprang over the back of the couch.

  Bill fired a single shot. The man’s head snapped back. He fell against a standing lamp, knocking it over. He crumpled to the floor. The porcelain shade dropped on top of him, smashing to pieces with a loud crash.

  Hank walked around to the front of the couch.

  The man who had been bobbing his head sat slumped on the blood-drenched cushions, his face chewed beyond recognition.

  “Ah, shit. He was eating this guy.”

  “Cannibals will do that.”

  “Bill, come on. Get real.”

  “All right. Would you rather I said ‘zombie’?”

  Hank shook his head. “Let’s check the—”

  A noise came from the kitchen.

  Before they could take a step, another sound came from upstairs.

  “You take the kitchen.” Bill headed for the staircase.

  Hank approached the kitchen entry. He edged along the wall, then saw a pair of bare feet on the floor with red toenail polish. He leaned forward till he could see the woman’s legs, her hiked-up peach-colored skirt, a yellow sweater stained red . . .

  And blood gurgling out of a hole that had been savagely torn in her neck. A large clump of hair had been ripped from her scalp.

  Hank stepped into the kitchen.

  A man grabbed Hank by the shirt, knocking his gun from his hand.

  They spun around, grappling like two roughhousing drunks.

  The attacker’s bloodshot eyes glared like two red-hot coals. He leaned in to bite Hank’s face.

  Hank punched him in the stomach. The man grunted, doubling over. Hank grabbed his assailant by the ears and rammed a knee into his face.

  The man flew back, striking the base of his skull on a beveled edge of the countertop. He flopped to the floor, blood pooling onto the tile under his head.

  A wild-haired man wearing blood-stained hospital pajamas charged out of the pantry.

  Hank snatched a large cast-iron skillet that was dangling over the kitchen island. He gripped the long handle with both hands and swung at his attacker. The curved edge of the pan struck the crown of the man’s skull, staggering him back. The top of his head was dented, like the cracked dome of a soft-boiled egg that had been tapped with a spoon.

  The body hit the floor.

  Hank picked up the .380 automatic. He rushed from the kitchen, dashed across the living room, and raced up the stairs.

  He tried the light switch in the hallway. Nothing. Moonlight slivered through a window, casting eerie shadows on the walls.

  Hank called out in a low whisper, “Bill?”

  “In here.”

  Hank opened the first door on the right.

  “Hurry—close the door!” Bill said.

  Hank ducked into the room and locked the door behind him. When he turned, he saw Bill standing next to a boy who was seated at a desk.

  “This is Jason,” Bill said. “He lives here with his parents.”

  Jason looked about twelve years old, pudgy, a little nerdy in his thick-lens glasses.

  “Did the zombies hurt my mom and dad?”

  Hank nodded.

  “I hate zombies! I hate them, I hate—”

  “Calm down, little buddy!” Bill put an arm around the boy.

  Hank walked over to the window. He peered between the curtains.

  A figure stood on the deck, staring up at him.

  Hank snapped the curtains shut. He turned around.

  Bill was looking about the room like a pleased curator cherishing newly found relics.

  “Hey, I like your room,” Bill told Jason.

  Zombie movie posters covered every wall: Warm Bodies, Day of the Dead, Night of the Living Dead, Dawn of the Dead, Zombie High, I Am Legend, Resident Evil . . .

  Stacks of graphic novels and comic books crammed the shelves of a large bookcase. Bill grabbed a thick paperback volume. “Holy cow, kid! This is compendium three of The Walking Dead.”

  A DVD tower held a slew of low-budget zombie movie titles.

  Zombie models adorned the dresser beside an army of grotesque action figures, which were huddled next to an autographed photo of the famous director George A. Romero wearing his signature black, large-framed spectacles.

  On the bed, an Xbox wireless controller was nestled with a game box of Nazi Zombies.

  Bill put the five-pound book back on the shelf. “I love your passion for zombies.”

  Jason backhanded a zombie figurine off his desk. “I hate them!” The plastic model smashed on the floor.

/>   “Can’t say as I blame you,” Hank said, hoping to calm the boy.

  Jason jumped up from his desk. He stormed over, ripped down a movie poster of Will Smith in I Am Legend. He crumpled it up into a ball and threw it down.

  Hank looked about the room. “Is there a phone in here?”

  “No.” Jason returned to his desk. “There’s a phone in my dad’s den.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Across the hall.”

  Heavy footsteps charged down the hallway outside. The doorknob rattled.

  Hank turned to Jason. He put his finger to his lips, signaling the boy to be quiet.

  The prowler stomped away in the direction of the stairs.

  “Bill, stay with the boy.”

  “You get into trouble, yell,” Bill said.

  Hank quietly unlocked the door and opened it a crack to peer into the hall. “It’s clear.” The detective stepped out of the room, shut the door behind him, then darted across the hallway into the den.

  A sliver of moonlight skirted between the curtains. Hank spotted the phone on the desk.

  An arm wrapped around his neck and tightened like a hangman’s noose. Hank gasped, attempting to break the choke hold with one hand. He could feel his windpipe being crushed. He was getting lightheaded. He let out a raspy breath, raised his gun . . .

  A powerful swat knocked his weapon from his hand.

  Hank stepped back, placing his right foot between his assailant’s ankles in a feeble attempt to trip him up.

  His attacker let go, spun Hank around, and head-butted him in the face.

  Blood spewed from Hank’s nostrils, pouring down his mouth and chin, soaking the front of his shirt.

  The assailant shoved him back onto the desk.

  Hank squinted.

  His attacker approached with an open, savage mouth.

  Hank swept his hand across the desk, searching the surface for a weapon. His knuckles brushed a plastic cup. He felt the pointy ends of a dozen pencils. He wrapped his fingers around the container and swung at the man’s face.

  The man jumped back, screaming. Quills of yellow no. 2 pencils quivered in his right eye socket.

  Hank vaulted off the desk and drove his shoulder into the man’s chest.

  The man fell back, clutching Hank’s arm.

  Hank pulled away, his fingers snagging something from the man’s wrist.

  The man toppled over a credenza, crashing through a window. His body landed on the redwood deck with a dull thud.

  Hank turned to the desk, picked up the phone, and punched three numbers.

  “9-1-1 operator. What is your emergency?”

  Hank opened his mouth. Nothing came out. His throat was on fire.

  “Hello? Please state your emergency.”

  Again, it was too painful to speak.

  Bill would have to make the call.

  Hank looked down at his hand. He was clutching a white hospital bracelet. “Patient: 273B—Mission Psychiatric Clinic” was embossed on the identifier.

  All this time, they’d been fighting deranged mental patients—not zombies!

  That zombie movie on the bus must have caused them to go berserk. Hank wondered if Jason’s love for zombies might be renewed once he learned that a crazed bunch of mental patients—not the undead—had killed his parents.

  He shambled toward the doorway. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror on the wall. With his broken nose and bruised face, he hardly recognized himself. His shirt was ripped and covered in blood. His throat felt as if he had swallowed an entire jar of jalapeños.

  He staggered out of the den and crossed the hall.

  Hank opened Jason’s door. The ceiling light was no longer on. He could just make out Bill shielding the boy, pointing his gun at the doorway.

  Hank stepped into the dimly lit room.

  “It’s one of them!” Jason yelled.

  Hank frantically shook his head.

  Bill cocked the hammer.

  “Shoot it!” Jason screamed.

  Bill’s finger stiffened on the trigger.

  Hank tried to speak. It came out a croak—the sound a zombie might make just before a bullet scrambled its brain. He snatched his gold shield from his belt and tossed it across the room.

  Bill took a quick glance at the object on the carpet. “Hank? Is that you?”

  Hank shuffled across the room. He sat on the edge of Jason’s desk, picked up a pencil, and wrote on a piece of drawing paper. He held the page up for the boy’s benefit before turning it so Bill could read: I HATE ZOMBIES TOO!

  5

  CASE NUMBER: 18-03-240

  A week later, Bill and another detective stood in the observation room, watching Officer Silverman through the one-way glass. Silverman escorted suspect Randolph Sikes into the claustrophobic interrogation room.

  Sikes was a short man, approximately five feet, six inches tall, weighing somewhere around one hundred and eighty pounds, balding with curly brown hair on the sides, wearing his custodial uniform with black boots.

  “Have a seat over there.” Officer Silverman directed Sikes to a metal chair in the corner, his voice audible through the speaker in the observation room.

  Sikes squeezed around the small table. He sat rigidly in the chair, hands folded on his lap.

  “The detectives will be right in.” Officer Silverman closed the door as he left the room.

  Sikes took a moment to gaze about the tiny room, which was no larger than a jail cell. It was plain to see by the queasy expression on his face that he disliked the insipid lime-green paint on the walls, a nauseating color commonly found in convalescent home solariums and hospital wings for the mentally disturbed.

  He stared suspiciously at the observation mirror, apprehensive of who might be concealed behind the reflective glass.

  The detectives watched his every move, searching for signs that the man might have something to hide: the slightest twitch, a mannerism indicating reasonable guilt.

  Sikes glanced nervously up at the stationary surveillance camera recording his every move.

  He looked away, stared down at his shoes.

  The floor tiles beneath his feet were black, creating the illusion that he was sitting over a dark pit—a psychological trick to rattle his subconscious, further his sense of powerlessness.

  A fluorescent lamp was rigged to flicker overhead whenever the suspect was left alone in the room. The irritating strobe-like effect often induced headaches, rendering the suspect vulnerable. Once the interrogation began, a switch would be thrown to stabilize the light.

  A brown phone with a crusty splotch resembling dried blood on the handset was mounted shoulder-high to the left of the door.

  In addition to Sikes’s chair, there were two other chairs which were ergonomically contoured, designed for extended periods of sitting. The chair facing Sikes was for the interrogator, while the chair on the other side of the six-foot-long rectangular table was for the witnessing detective.

  The room was stifling, as the thermostat had been intentionally turned up. A strip of tape hung limply from the metal grate of the air-conditioning vent.

  Sweat beaded on Sikes’s forehead. He raised his hand to wipe his brow, exposing the damp ring forming under the armpit of his shirt.

  He stared up at the camera, nervously pumping his left foot—squirming like he might wear a hole into the seat.

  The two detectives stepped out of the observation room and strode down the hall to the next door.

  Sikes jolted in his chair when the door opened.

  “Mr. Sikes, I’m Detective Berg. This is Detective Hendrix.” Berg sat in the interrogator’s chair. He scooted the chair closer so his knees were almost touching Sikes’s.

  Bill sat in the other chair, observing Sikes from across the table.

  Berg placed the police report on the table as if he had written it. Bill knew better. Hank had documented the case before taking administrative leave. Then Jonas Berg—“The Iceberg”—
had swooped in with his uptown senior detective rank and taken over the investigation. Bill resented having to deal with the pompous cop who got off on upstaging his fellow officers.

  Berg had served in the military. Rumors floated around that he’d been a ruthless interrogator at Guantanamo Bay and that there had been a cover-up concerning his methods for producing confessions.

  Bill abhorred the idea of torturing a suspect. He could be intimidating in his own right. He had the exemplary arrest record to prove it and had never harmed a suspect during an interrogation.

  He wondered what interrogation techniques Berg would employ.

  Sustained isolation was generally a good way to break a person. Naked, blindfolded, left confined to the darkness with no human contact. So exhausted, they couldn’t think straight. Sleep deprived, denied food and water. Sensitive parts of the body exposed to open flame. Waterboarding: pouring water over a restrained captive’s hooded head, causing the prisoner to experience the traumatic sensation of drowning. The humiliation of being stripped of all humanity.

  Bill kept a watchful eye on Berg.

  Berg stared at Sikes, waiting for the man to look up from his shoes. “So, do you know why you were brought in?”

  “Something to do with those women who were killed in our building, I suppose.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why ask me? I don’t know anything.”

  “Do you like to be called Randolph or Randy?”

  “Randolph. Only my mother calls me Randy.”

  “Okay, Randolph. So I gather you live with your mother?”

  “No! I have my own place. At the Regal apartments.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “The basement. I fixed up the storage room.”

  “Sounds nice. Is there anything you would like before we begin? Water or maybe some coffee? A cigarette perhaps? Smoking is generally forbidden. We can make a special exception in your case.”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Just as well. It is a little stuffy in here.”

  “What’s wrong with the air conditioner?” Randolph wiped his brow.

  “Broken. We’ve got someone coming out to fix it. Maybe you would like some water?”

  “Water would be good.”

  Berg glanced over at Bill.