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“So what did we see?”
“I don’t know. Something made up to look like a zombie.”
“What about the glowing red eyes?”
“I have to admit, they were freaky.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Lula said.
I parked in the cemetery lot, and Lula and I walked to the gate. Lula had her gun drawn in case she had to shoot a zombie in the brain. My gun was at home in the cookie jar. The Rangeman gun was riding along with Morelli. I kept telling myself I didn’t believe in zombies, and mostly I didn’t. I also didn’t believe in giant spiders that could eat me alive and venom-spewing, anal-probing aliens from Uranus. All this not believing had little effect on the irrational fear I carried for zombies, spiders, and aliens.
We passed through the gate, and Lula stopped and sniffed.
“Well?” I asked.
“It smells okay. And I’m not getting any zombie vibes. I say we keep going.”
We followed the path to the tree where Slick had set up camp. The area was littered with his belongings, but he wasn’t there. A white Styrofoam cooler was overturned and empty. A blanket, his GoPro, his journal, and a ball cap were on the ground by the cooler.
“I don’t like the looks of this,” Lula said.
“Maybe he had to use the bathroom.”
“Or maybe the zombies got him.”
It bothered me that Slick’s GoPro and journal were lying out, and that the pen was several feet from the journal. I was trying not to be an alarmist, but I secretly agreed with Lula that this didn’t look good.
Lula was standing by a tombstone, staring at the grave. “Does it look like someone started to dig this up again?”
“Yes. Some of the sod has been dislodged.”
I walked farther down the path, finding another grave that had been recently disturbed. Lula’s video camera was half buried in the soft dirt. I shouted for Slick, but no one answered. The cemetery was eerily quiet.
I called Morelli, gave him the short version, and suggested he might want to take a look at the grave sites.
Lula returned to the parking lot to direct the police when they arrived, and I stayed graveside. I knew there was a good chance that this was a crime scene and I needed to keep its integrity, but I wanted to read Slick’s journal and see what he’d caught on the cameras.
I carefully brushed the dirt away from Lula’s camera and checked recent videos. There was nothing after Lula’s bungee-jumping disaster. I placed the camera back in the dirt and went to the GoPro. The rewind on this showed more. Two shadowy forms with glowing eyes could be seen moving toward the camera.
Slick’s voice was a whisper. “Oh, no. Oh crap.”
The creatures stopped and looked left. Slick panned with the camera, and I saw a third form. It was taller, and it quickly moved out of the frame. The camera was on infrared mode, making identification difficult, but there was something about the hair and the build of the third one that looked familiar. I replayed the video and had a chilling feeling in my gut. I couldn’t be certain, but I thought it looked like Diesel. The camera returned to the two red-eyed creatures as they rushed at Slick, arms outstretched, mouths gaping open. The video went to the dark sky, someone screamed, and the camera cut out.
I heard cars entering the parking lot, and I was in a state of confused anxiety. I was having a hard time breathing and thinking. The red-eyed creatures in the video were terrifying. Slick was missing, and my stomach was sick at the possibility of finding his headless body behind a tombstone. And then there was Diesel. I was almost positive he was the man in the video. What the heck was he doing there? Was he one of them? Was he hunting them? And what was I supposed to say to Morelli? I think I recognize the tall guy in the video. He’s living with me. And he’s been sleeping in my bed. Naked. This brought on more nausea.
Okay, get a grip. Breathe. It’s not so bad. It’s all been pretty innocent. No penetration. No exchange of bodily fluids. Not yet, anyway. And now that he might be a zombie, or maybe a zombie handler . . . I squinched my eyes closed. Don’t even go there. First off, there are no zombies. Second, there are no zombies.
Two uniforms appeared on the path, and I realized I hadn’t looked at the journal. I dropped the GoPro, snatched the journal off the ground, and shoved it into my bag. I made the sign of the cross and told God I was only keeping the journal for a short time. It wasn’t like I was stealing something or tampering with evidence. I was actually safeguarding evidence so it didn’t get trampled by all the cops who were rushing into the cemetery.
Morelli was close behind the uniforms. I stood to one side and waited for him to first take in the scene at the grave and then make his way to me.
“Let me get this straight,” Morelli said. “Instead of taking Slick in, you decided to let him stay here to film the zombies.”
“At the time, it sounded like an okay idea.”
Morelli looked at the GoPro lying on the ground. “He was going to film them with this?”
“Yes. And with a camera that Lula loaned him. We found Lula’s camera at the other grave.”
