Chapter 13 – The long and short of Ivan Wroth

The back of Detective Cameron's 1950 Ford Custom Fordor Sedan was slightly cluttered with just about everything: papers, discarded food containers, empty packs of smokes, and now Herbert West.

The drive was quiet, with Cameron not uttering another word to the doctor from the time they left the crime scene, and it was the quiet that was disturbing Herbert the most. The man had questions, that was his reason for isolating him, and yet he was not asking anything, not saying anything... and it was completely throwing the good doctor.

"Where are we going?" Herbert finally inquired, breaking the eerie silence.

There was more calm from the detective, but he eventually cleared his throat and answered, "Crestridge Police Department, genius."

He didn't turn around, he didn't shoot him any kind of glance in the rear-view mirror... he just answered, cold and flat. Only more silence followed after the detective's answer. Herbert was no good with small talk. Honestly, he was no good with talk in general, usually waiting on other people to take the lead and just following along if he needed to. This was the first time he could recall that he needed info but had no idea how to get it without giving the officer what he wanted.

"Crestridge? We're in Crestridge? Um, where is that?"

No answer.

Frustrated, Herbert dug through his mind in desperation, seeking out any nugget of conversation he could. On the spur of the moment, he remembered the incident that occurred in the back alley and, more specifically, what he overheard Detective Cameron say. A thin smile spread across his lips as he prepared himself to try to stimulate a conversation once more. "So, do the dead come back to life in your little town often?"

His question, at least, caused Cameron to look into the rear-view mirror at him, eyes slightly wider than normal, but no other tell-tale signs of surprise written on his face.

"You knew that rotted fellow back there didn't you, detective?" the doctor asked, already aware of the answer. He was not met with a response or a glance this time, but it felt like the Ford had picked up speed.

If any random person who observed Herbert and his odd inclination to stir the pot had asked him why he did so, he would not be able to provide them with an answer. At least not a straightforward one. There were men whose every action made logical sense, and then there were those who just wanted to poke the bear for the hell of it. Herbert, more often that not, fell into the latter category when it came to antagonization. He didn't always know why he did it or even how far was too far (until it was too late), but there was something about him, something in him, that drove him to push others again and again... just as he was about to do with his next sentence. This time, however, he had a plan for his brash actions.

"I heard you back in the alley, detective. Just before you blew that thing's head off, you confessed. You confessed to having already killed it once before."

This time Herbert felt the Fordor stop suddenly, violently. If he had viewed the vehicle from an outsider's perspective, he would have seen the three-foot long skid-marks of rubber the screeching tires left as the vehicle halted its movement. While the doctor had anticipated some sort of response from his remark, especially judging from what he received earlier, his prediction wasn't enough to stop him from flying forward and firmly planting his left shoulder into the back of the driver's seat. He released an audibly groan of discomfort as the area immediately began to throb. It was the same shoulder that had been hit earlier when he was making a mad dash for the police car with Spider and Bert and, while the pain had dissipated to nothing thereafter, it hadn't felt quite right since.

"You done being tough, smart guy, or am I gonna have to come back there and beat some sense into you?"

Even if he was in a whole new world of hurt thanks to his prodding, Herbert knew he couldn't just cower away like he wanted to; he needed to keep hold of the man's attention if he wanted to get himself out of this situation. Before he could start to talk again, however, his shoulder popped when he sat back in his seat, sending a shock through his entire system that inhibited him.

"You know what, Froggy? Since you're so talkative all of the sudden, why don't you start telling me about these?" He reached to his right, not at all caring that he was still stopped in the middle of the block, far removed from any stop lights or signs, and pulled up the collection of notes. "Or..." he threw the papers down into the passenger seat, digging his hand into the medical bag. "How about this nasty little mask you and your friends were so scared of me touching? You know, the green one with the eye right in the middle of the forehead?" He lifted up the mask and held it so Herbert couldn't miss the thing, leering into the backseat as he did so.

Herbert's sights sharpened in annoyance, the simple act before him screaming 'defiance!' in his head. "Don't touch th-" he nearly demanded, but a loud cry from the detective cut him short and signaled that he was too late in his warning.

"Damn it!" Cameron yelled a second after sucking in a stinging breath. His hand jolted at the same time, causing the mask to falter in, but not fall out of, his grip. He plopped the veil back into the bag and brought his hand closer to his face for examination. There was a long cut that ran from the top of his pinky to the bottom of it, blood already starting to soak through the sliver of open skin. Instinctively, the detective rose his pinky to his mouth and momentarily soothed the laceration with a slight suction.

Herbert simply stared at the man in continued disbelief for a moment, trying to instantly wrap his brain around the fact that he was very likely stuck with this bullying, arrogant cop for god knew how long. No, not just him; John and Spider, too. All of them.

The outcome was so horrible to the doctor that it became comical. A true comedy of errors in this living nightmare. He began to laugh after a moment of silence where the detective merely stared at his finger. The chuckle soon turned into a cackle, one that heaved Herbert's chest up and down with every sound, eyes nearly closed in some mad euphoria that made a wide, open-mouth grin spread across his face. For Cameron, the scene was unquestionably eerily. Eerie and genuine on his detainee.

Herbert never found humor in the things most others did, nor did the man have particularly good timing with his outbursts of amusement. People would laugh at a comedy movie or a stand-up comedian's routine, Herbert wouldn't. He didn't find anything to laugh about in those things. People didn't find humor in the misfortune of others, but Herbert often did. A broken, bloodied nose from a fall would garner chuckles at the unfortunate recipient from the doctor, as would any prank that would induce immediate, rampant fear, such as the time Herbert had 'joked' that Dan's re-animated cat, Rufus, was about to attack his associate again after they had just spent over two terrifying minutes trying to kill the thing, and ultimately succeeding.

"We- we warned you," Herbert ridiculed, his words filled with laughter that neither man really understood. "Now you're stuck with us."

Cameron let out a contentious laugh of his own. "'Stuck with you' my ass. Dropping you off at the station and calling it a night. Screw the paperwork, the rookie can handle it." He shifted the car into drive, but Herbert's next words made his foot feel like it was made of lead and he couldn't lift it off the brake.

"You'll be seeing more of the walking dead, detective, that's for sure. My whole night has been filled with them. The university, the funeral home, the warehouse... here. We're as damned as they are."

As images of an obviously-dead, badly decomposed, ax-wielding body of Ivan Wroth flashed in detective Ray Cameron's mind, Herbert's words played over them like the opening dialogue of some bad B-movie. Ray had a history with that corpse, one that he was sure had ended twenty-seven years ago when he killed the serial murderer in cold blood.

Ivan Wroth was a thirty-five-year-old former milkman who had never aspired to be anything more than the profession he'd obtained. Growing up in the time period he had, milkmen were a fairly prevalent, as their jobs were essential in his hometown and looked upon with pride. By the time Ivan was old enough to become what he admired the most, the profession was facing a downhill slide. Not only had more stores popped up across the US, making shopping for such things much more practical, but innovations such as refrigerators had become more and more reliable at keeping things cold, fresh and maintained, diminishing the need, daily and otherwise, for milkmen overall.

When the company he had worked for went under and Ivan was informed that he would be performing his final milk run, something in him snapped. He couldn't handle a changing America, and he couldn't fathom losing the one thing he had aspired to be the most. A voice in his head told him that his customers wouldn't be able to handle it either, so he should take care of them, make his last day their last day. Ivan took a full milk bottle and bludgeoned his boss' head in once he learned of the news. He went on to kill the secretary and three other milkmen who were still getting ready for their day before he left for his route. By the time the police were called about a suspicious milkman wandering the streets in a blood-soaked white uniform, Ivan had already visited three households and butchered the families with the fire ax he acquired from the dairy processing plant. He was arrested without incident and committed to the Crestridge Mental Institute, a state-run residence for the criminally insane, once he was found not guilty by reason of insanity. He had only been a patient at the hospital for one year when he broke free one night, killing four orderlies brutally with a large fire ax before his escape.

Ray had heard the all-points bulletins again and again throughout that fateful night, a harrowing reality for the at-the-time rookie who was only two weeks on the job, but what really made his stomach churn was when highway patrol had called the station, stating they saw a car on the side of the road, something seemed skeptical about it and they wanted a couple officers to look into it. What caused Ray to dread the thought was that Pam, his ex, his high-school sweetheart... the love of his life, was quite possibly still out with her new boyfriend, Johnny, and in complete danger. A nagging concern in his head told him that the car was the same '57 Ford Thunderbird that he had seen her and her beau in earlier at the local make-out spot, Atkins Point. When he arrived on the scene, it only took one look at the car parked on the side of Route 66 and Ray knew his fears were correct- it was the same Thunderbird from earlier in the night. There was also something next to it, something that looked very similar to a human appendage. While Mitch Harbor, Ray's partner, took a look in the woods, Ray approached the seemingly abandoned vehicle and picked up the dismembered forearm on the road. The sight of the hand attached to it made his stomach sink and his mind crack; he recognized it instantly. It was a hand he had caressed all throughout high-school, kissed softly on passionate nights, and thought he would hold daily for the rest of his life. It was Pam's hand.

He found more of her on the road, and in the car, and in the woods. She had been chopped up into so many pieces he couldn't even count them all... he didn't want to count them all. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. Sure, Pam had broken up with him when he decided to pursue a career in the law enforcement field after high school instead of going to college, but he had assured himself that he would easily win her back when she realized how serious he was about the line of work, once she saw that he was willing to make it work and rise through the ranks. All of those dreams were suddenly dead. They were just as dead as Pam and as the realization of that truly began to sink in, he screamed. He screamed into the night, yelled and howled in agony over the death of his ex, and as he did so the crack in his mind splintered in all directions, hobbling his morals, convictions and sense of justice horribly.

They never found Ivan Wroth that night, or the next night, or the next. The serial killer hadn't vanished completely though, as ax murders continued in the days following his escape. They all lead to a straight path that would have easily pointed authorities to the deranged murderer, but Ray had another idea in mind and purposefully mislead his brothers in blue at various turns so he could track down Ivan himself. When he did, what followed wasn't routine police work... it was revenge. Every night that he tracked him, Ray carried his twelve-gauge shotgun with him, and the night he found him was no different. The rookie looked the psychopath dead in the eyes as he leveled his firearm off at his chest and blew a hole through Ivan's back with the slug that ripped out of the barrel.

Ray wrapped the body in plastic and buried it in a vacant lot. There would be a lot of families that would not get to feel the justice he had just felt, that would think that Ivan Wroth had simply vanished into thin air and could return again and any time to start killing once more, but Ray didn't care. His retaliation was selfish and would remain a secret and he truly didn't give a good Goddamn. With the deed done and over with, the cracks in his mind seemed to heal over, like a bandage had been placed over them to fix the broken spots. Only, Ray never fully recovered from what happened nor from what he did. No more was he the smiling newcomer to the force that went out of his way to connect with his fellow officers nor the playboy on the force that he could have become if things never panned out with Pam. He shut himself off from life, from people, and while he kept his job and advanced through the ranks, he hated it just as much as he did everything else.

"Cal- California," the detective finally blurted out, pulling himself from memory lane and causing Herbert's incessant laughter to quickly die out. As he spoke, he shifted in his seat, looking forward to the road again as his foot finally slipped off the brake pedal. "We're in Crestridge, California."

A whirlwind of a thought ripped through Herbert's mind at the announcement of his location. California?! We were just somewhere in Kentucky, according to the license plates, and I went there in a blink of an eye from Massachusetts. I've spanned one end of the country to the other!

The doctor continued staring at the man, only solemnly this time and with a much more subdued smile. He listened to the man in the driver's seat release a shaky breath and felt the car slowly begin to pick up speed again as the accelerator was engaged. He didn't know what had shifted, and he was quite certain that his captor didn't believe a word he had said and his laughter only helped to further his disbelief, but it was quite clear that something had changed in the man.

In his head, Ray wanted to believe that Herbert was crazy, a madman, one who had clearly flown over the cuckoo's nest... but there was a certain truth about what he had said as well. He didn't know exactly where Herbert's vague list of places were actually located, but if the university he mentioned was Corman University, that would certainly lend itself to his credibility. The only thing that was off was the time. It was undeniable that something was amiss in the town of Crestridge, but the authorities had kept it mostly under wraps. First there was the frozen body that disappeared from the cryogenics lab, showing up on the steps of the Kappa Delta Sigma sorority the same night it vanished. The head was the only visibly damaged area and, at first, Cameron his mistook the injury for that of an ax-wound, stirring old fears that he had never truly managed to put to rest for twenty-seven years. When the second body, a local lab tech from the cryogenics lab who had died from unknown causes the night the frozen corpse vanished, first disappeared from police custody and then somehow showed up near the lab the young man had worked at, Ray began to have worsening suspicions. The lab tech's body had gone through extensive damage due to the autopsy that was being performed on it before it went missing, but the coroner, Jake, swore up and down that he had not touched the head of the body, and certainly hadn't done whatever it took to split the skull in two. Aside from the head injury, there was another disturbing coincidence that the detective had noticed: the destroyed cranial cavities contained hardly any brain matter left in them, and what was left looked like it had been put through a blender. Lastly, of course, there was the recently re-deceased Ivan Wroth, who had absolutely no business up and roaming around or killing the Kappa Delta Sigma's house mother, even if her cottage was built over the spot Ray buried him in. Worse yet was that the detective's gut was telling him that this wasn't over, that there would be more brainless-bodies showing up if they didn't figure out just what the hell was going on and put a stop to it. Remembering what John had addressed his detainee as earlier, the detective took a leap of faith and asked Herbert if he really was a doctor.

Herbert hesitated in his answer, feeling very on edge about such an out-of-place question and trying to figure out how it related to anything they were talking about beforehand.

"Yeah, I thought so," Cameron sighed, "'Doctor' is probably just your lousy street name or something and the lab smock just adds to your little fantasy."

"I am a doctor, alright?!" Herbert replied with audibly irritation. "And a scientist... I just don't have my license to practice yet."

"Okay, Doc," Ray continued, his normal demeanor returning to him as the two continued on. "You ever hear of a case where someone's head can split in two from the inside?"

"What, like their head just exploded?" Herbert asked, mockery lining his question.

"Close. It's really like their head just cracked open. Kinda like when a flower blooms, ya know?" He took a quick look back to see if Herbert was following along with him. "Besides, if the head exploded there'd be blood and brains everywhere. With the two bodies we found, there was hardly any blood or brains left in 'em."

After thinking for a few seconds, Herbert countered, "Even if that were the case and you weren't just dealing with a killer who had a knack for sanitation, it sounds like there would have to be some sort of immense pressure to crack the skull in two instead of just forcing everything out through the nose and eye sockets."

Cameron looked ill for a moment, like he had to hold back a bad case of nausea. "Jesus Christ, Doc..."

"Unless..." Herbert trailed for a moment, taking everything he was told into consideration. "Unless the pressure is being created by some kind of foreign object that not only expands, but also eats away at both soft and hard tissue, like brain matter and bone..."

"Never found anything inside the head, though. Just one empty hole."

"Bot flies," Herbert answered without giving the idea much more thought. "There have been several cases where bot fly larvae has managed to tunnel its way into its host's brain, both animal and human, and eat away at it. Then again, they wouldn't cause a head to split open."

His answer immediately made Ray flash back to blowing Ivan Roth's head to smithereens. Things came out of it. Things that hit the cold, hard concrete below and scurried away, leaving the rotting corpse to collapse to the ground. He needed to head home. He needed to head home immediately to take a better look at a certain set of crime scene photographs from a case that happened twenty-seven years ago. But first...

As the Fordor pulled to a slow stop in front of the police station some minutes later, Herbert's eyes widened. He had been so lost in thought trying to piece together not only the puzzle the detective had hinted to him but also what was happening in the town of Crestridge, he had completely forgotten he was being escorted to jail.

"You can't be serious about throwing us in jail still?!"

"Dead serious, Froggy," Cameron replied.

Herbert was left with a half-mortified, half-confused look on his face as he tried to ascertain if the detective was joking or not. After all, he reasoned, they were just touching on the subject of death. "But- but we can help you with these cases! Help you figure out what happened to those people, why their heads ruptured from the inside, why the dead are up and walking again We can-"

"No way three civilians are gonna be trotted along on a case, especially ones as sketchy as you guys. Unless, that is, you feel like finally telling me the story behind you and your buddies being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Somewhat deflated, Herbert replied, "You wouldn't believe me if I tried."

Detective Cameron looked at Herbert with an earnest interest from his reflection in the rear-view mirror. "Thrill me."

The doctor opened his mouth to begin talking before his logic got the better of him. You really expect him to believe a word you say after you explain that you've been time and location hoping for the past few hours? he inwardly chided. He might believe your accounts of the re-animated, but you'd have to lie about everything else. You're a horrible on-the-spot liar... and trying to lie to a trained police officer? Not smart, Herbert. Knowing he couldn't carry on, the doctor released a hefty sigh and bowed his head.

"Silence might not be an admission of guilt, Froggy, but it sure as hell don't make you look innocent, either," Ray said with a sigh of his own, opening his door and getting out of the car. "Maybe a night in the clink will change your mind."

Even though detective Cameron had given the hand-off officer specific instructions not to place any of the three men in the same cell, that was exactly what happened to Herbert after he was booked. The officer didn't really have much of a choice, though. The 'drunk tank' cell was full, the cell at the back of the station still had a broken lock and the only cell left was the one John was already in. As Herbert was lead down the long, narrow hall, he took a look at his dingy surroundings. The area was dark, lit only by sparsely placed hanging ceiling lamps that had seen better days. Most of them had low-watt bulbs that barely illuminated anything. The paint on the cement floor was cracked and outright missing in spots, making for somewhat of a dangerous walk in the badly-lit area. As the doctor walked passed the drunk tank, he could see at least eight people crammed into the small space, all of which having to share a single toilet and sink, both showing severe signs of wear, tear and neglect. A brief smile appeared on Herbert's face at the sight of his traveling companion as the insides of the next cell came into view. He was sitting on one of the wall-mounted benches, snug in-between the sink and the toilet.

The cell door slammed shut with enough unexpected force to cause Herbert to jump at the sound and John to release a single laugh at the sight.

"Not used to being behind bars, huh doc?" John watched as Herbert's handcuffs were removed as he held his hands through the rectangular slit in the cell door.

Herbert turned around and began rubbing at his wrists, right where the cuffs were tightened a little too much. "And you are, I imagine?"

John shrugged, a smirk lining his lips. "I wasn't always the fine specimen of morality you see sitting in front of you today. Hell, I was on the real bad side of the law once upon a time. Me an' a whole gang of other idiots."

"Mm-hmm," Herbert hummed in slight disregard, more concerned over what was missing than what John was saying. "And Spider- where is he?"

Before John could answer, slurred shouts came from the drunk tank across the hall.

"Hey! Did you just say there was a spider in your cell?"

"There's spiders in here?! You can't lock us up I these conditions- it's against the Geneva Conventions!"

"Someone said 'sliders and beer', right?"

The commotion continued for over a minute, the voices from the intoxicated inhabitants from the other cell growing louder and louder, until an officer poked his head around the corner and yelled for everyone to quiet down.

After things had calmed, Herbert walked to where John was sitting and motioned for him to scoot over, plopping down beside him when he did so.

"What the hell is a "sliders'?" the gunslinger immediately asked, keeping his voice somewhat quiet to avoid eavesdroppers again.

"A 'slider'," Herbert corrected with a slight smile, "is apparently a food option of choice for young, drunk college students here. It's a small hamburger."

John seemed to muse on the the answer for a moment before changing the subject entirely. "Not sure where the kid is," he finally replied, going back to the doctor's question that brought about the disturbance across from them. "We were right behind 'em, and they made it here first- and mind you we only made it here about fifteen minutes before you showed up, I reckon. Anyway, He must have some kind of way about him, because that lady officer was nothing but smiles and he was yappin' on and on to her as she led him into the building."

"He probably made us all sound crazy," Herbert lamented, assuming Spider had broke and told the officer about the morgue and the white light.

John began to chuckle through his reply. "No, I don't think so. Not with the way that lady was smiling."

Herbert looked at his crony for a moment, almost angry that the cowpuncher could assume to know something he did not. "Well he's not here, so he either said something worthy of interrogation or they are holding him in another room."

A long beat of silence followed the short-lived discussion of their missing partner. Neither man knew what to say next... but Herbert knew what he should say, even if he didn't particularly care to.

"Tell me about this troublesome gang of yours," the doctor finally released, not at all caring that his tone was of a 'ho-hum' manner. He figured that if he was going to be stuck with John until they figured this whole mess out, depend on him more than he had anyone in his life before, that he could at least humor the man by pretending to have an interest in his life and what he had to say. Deep down, there was a legitimate curiosity Herbert held towards John and the history the man must have had, it was just that that intrigue was overridden by the good doctor's survival instincts.

"And here I thought you were too concerned with your research papers to hear any more of my crazy, 'made-up' stories." John made sure to apply a healthy air-quote to the key part of his sentence for emphasis.

Herbert released a laugh. A real, honest-to-god laugh. In truth, he was worried about his notes. His heart nearly burst from his chest several times from stints of uncontrollable inner-anxiety, but he also knew that worrying was all he could do at the moment... and that wasn't going to help anyone. "Well," he began, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose before leaning forward, resting his arms on his legs and clasping his hands together, "as a man in a mortuary once told me, 'Can't get to 'em right now, so I best just worry about the here and now.'"

A look of shock overcame John's face as he heard the doctor try his best to imitate not only his words, but his voice as well. There was a low, guttural roughness to the tone, alongside a painfully fake drawl. If it wasn't for the fact that the gunslinger knew West, he might have felt insulted, but the fact that it was West made it amusing to the man. His astonishment soon turned to delight as he found himself cracking up at the absurd imitation. "You are full of surprises, West," John proclaimed, a laugh still wrapping his words. "Full of them." After taking a moment to collect himself, John pondered on where the best place to start would be with the recounting of Dutch's gang, and he settled on the point that most would: the beginning.