Chapter Two

Walking into the Georgia police department, I made my way over to my desk, a coffee cup in my hand. And no. It wasn't Starbucks. Just a local coffee house that was better than stupid Starbucks, thank you very much. And cheaper.

I logged onto my computer and typed in my password before a mugshot was waved in my face. I sighed quietly, taking it into my hands.

"Again?" I asked, looking at it.

"Your old man just can't lay off the booze, can he, Dixon?"

I looked at the source. Pompus Alex Williams. Pretty boy who always had his hair slicked back and his face clean shaven. Reminded me of Percy Wetmore from The Green Mile. He just wasn't psychotic.

"Merle Dixon's always had a track record a mile long. Besides, I don't consider him my father. Sorry to burst your bubble, Williams." I tossed my father's drunken mugshot at him, making Alex catch it in his fist, crinkling the paper. I smirked a bit. I knew Chief Anderson wouldn't like that. Each and every file had to be absolutely perfect, no tears, no creases, nothing. And if you had a stain on it, you were going to get lectured like nobody's business.

"Regardless of what you say, he is."

"Only by blood." I snapped, glancing at my computer again. Alex leaned on it, and I heard the machine groan in protest. He then made sure that his face was close to mine before speaking.

"And by name. Remember, no one wanted you. They always sent you back. You weren't worth it."

I knew Alex only spoke like this if someone had pissed him off or bested him in something, and usually I could control myself.

But today, I just couldn't.

Slowly, out of his line of sight, I took the lid off my coffee cup and threw the drink in his face, making him close his eyes tightly and his mouth hang open. I had to admit. It was a sight to see. Some people looked back and noticed what had happened. A couple laughed to themselves. I smirked slightly as Alex wiped the coffee from his eyes and stood, slowly making it drip on his uniform. I surpressed a laugh as he quickly made his way to the bathroom, not saying a word.

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I made my way over to the window and looked out. It was a woman, maybe just three weeks dead. Her long hair hung limply, and what looked like a leaf was tangled inside of it. Her skin of her left cheek was falling off, and she shuffled around, not exactly walking like an actual person would. The clothes she was wearing were torn, and there was a large wound on her neck, undoubtly the bite that ended her life and made her into this hellish creature. She groaned as she walked around, her eyes clouded over and lifeless.

I aimed the rifle right at her head, making sure it was a clean shot before shooting her. The woman let out a growl before falling to the ground. I waited there for a minute or so, not daring to move. Once I was convinced there was no more groaning and the moment was stilled, I stood. Grabbing my pistol and a shovel, I walked out to where she was, beginning to dig a grave next to her.

She had a bullet in the middle of her forehead, a clean shot. Which meant that she was finally, officially, dead. I couldn't help but look at her from time to time as I dug. She had a torn black tank top, with one of the straps hanging limply to one side. Her jean shorts had multiple rips and tears. Her shoes were long gone, her feet torn to hell. In a way, I was glad that she couldn't feel the pain. I know what it's like just to cry because of a blister. Of course that blister was the size of a quarter, and was torn open. But I can't imagine having multiple cuts. Of course she was walking around dead, so the cuts probably didn't matter. She probably never felt them.

What seemed like hours later, I wiped my forehead of sweat. The air may have been cool, but it never stops anyone from sweating.

I reached into the dead woman's pocket and took out her wallet, opening it to see who she was. Her license was the first thing that caught my eye. I took it out and looked at it. The small picture showed her smiling, so I knew it had to be one of her first licenses (because no one hardly smiles, guys, lets face that fact right here and now). Her hair was light blonde, cascading in front of her forehead before being brought back by either a ponytail or a braid. She wanted to be an organ donor. She had brown eyes. Weighed only 110 pounds. Five foot two. Her name was Cassidy Smyth.

And she was eighteen years old.

I glanced down at Cassidy and shook my head.

"I'm sorry this had to happen to you, Cassidy. It's not a good way to die. In fact, it's a terrible way. I can't imagine the fear or the... the pain." I swallowed hard. "I hope you're in a better place now." I leaned on the shovel a bit. "I'm Megan. Megan Dixon. I was a cop with the Georgia PD. Now, I don't know what you wanted to do when you graduated high school, or college. But I'm sure what it was, was going to be something spectacular." I swallowed hard. "You were a very pretty girl. I bet you even had a boyfriend. Or girlfriend, I'm not judging. In fact I like gay people. One of my very best friends was lesbian." I sighed quietly. "I guess I gotta get you in the ground now." I cleared my throat, dragging her to the grave carefully, not wanting to accidentally tear off a limb.

I placed her in gently, and began to fill the hole with dirt.

Once I was finished, I made my way back inside, trying not to cry.