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Chapter 6: What'cha Gonna Do When They Come For You?

The first thing that Officer Johnson noticed when he climbed out of his patrol car was the smell. "Holy..." he began, then shuddered in disgust. "Did something die?" he asked his partner, gagging slightly as he shielded his nose with his forearm.

The older policeman's bushy mustache writhed beneath his nose, but he didn't show any other visible reaction to the foul scent as he swung his car door shut with a muffled thump. "That's not decomp," was all he said.

"Are you sure?" Johnson asked. "We're right on a canal here," he added, as he pointed to the nearby water for emphasis, "if a floater washed ashore it'd explain the... the... odor," Johnson continued.

"I'm sure. You can't mistake it for anything else. This isn't it," the older, more experienced Murphy explained.

Johnson shrugged. "It's definitely something, though," he said unnecessarily, wincing again as he unintentionally breathed too deeply.

"Yep," Murphy agreed laconically.

Shading his eyes, Johnson looked up and down the street. It was peaceful, well-kept, orderly, and as he had noted previously, it also paralleled an offshoot of a minor tributary that only gross exaggeration could describe as a river which flowed from the far distant Everglades and emptied into the Atlantic. The street was all but indistinguishable from the thousands of similar streets that could be found in the innumerable communities along the Florida coast; all looked normal. The only irregularities to be found were the smell, and the muffled sound of dogs barking continuously and vigorously from some of the houses. "I hear what Mrs... Baker was it? meant," he noted.

"Yep," Murphy agreed again, his mustache crinkling as he smiled briefly in amusement.

"Anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?" Johnson jibed.

"Yep," Murphy might have smirked beneath the cover of the mustache - the skin around his eyes definitely wrinkled, in any case. "I don't know what that smell is, but five will get you ten it's what's got the dogs in an uproar."

"I was afraid you were going to say that," Johnson groaned, then theatrically sniffed the air. Wincing, he pointed west, further down the road, and nearer the canal. "Whatever it is, it smells like it's coming from down yonder."

Murphy hitched up his gunbelt as Johnson spoke into the shoulder mounted handset of his police radio, telling the dispatcher they were moving away from their vehicle. As the reply from the central station crackled from their receivers, acknowledging their report, the pair strode westward along the shoulder of the road.

As they walked past a small, pale yellow house, the yipping barks of a terrier fenced in the front yard were striking in both their intensity, and their ferocity. The tiny canine was snarling and yelping with a viciousness far beyond anything his small size or the name "Precious" painted on the front of his doghouse (which had been built to mirror the construction of the owner's home in miniature), could possibly imply. As they passed the house, both officers noted the canine was facing the same direction the officers were walking, and was more exact and persistent in his orientation than even the finest, best bred hunting dog.

"Interesting," Murphy noted, but didn't elaborate as they continued on. Johnson nodded his agreement, but remained mute.

From the upper window of faded green house, the sound of a TV or radio could be heard. "The Pentagon has now confirmed that elements of the US Navy continue to assist in the search for a missing member of Team Possible in the South Pacific, following the destruction of an undersea installation. But as time passes without sign of the missing young man, experts fear..." The news report was abruptly cut off as the station was changed, then was changed again, cutting off the throbbing beats of Slipknot. As the officers continued walking, the strains of Glenn Miller's orchestra playing "In the Mood" faded behind them.

The pair passed another dozen homes, and as they approached a curve in the road, the deeper growls of a blunt-faced bulldog on the far side of the street filled their ears. "You see that?" Johnson queried.

Murphy nodded. He had noticed the direction of the bulldog's focus as well. Instead of facing west as the terrier had been, he was looking towards the officers - and towards the canal they had been paralleling as they walked along the roadside.

Without exchanging a word, both men flicked open the security strap that secured their sidearm into its holster, though neither drew his firearm. With a nod of acknowledgement, Johnson led the way down through the yard of a white cottage, following the grade of the embankment as it sloped gently down from the suburban road moving towards the gently rippling canal they could see behind the property.

"Whew," Johnson exhaled heavily, and covered his nose with the back of one hand as the wind shifted and a gust redolent of something deeply foul blew over him. Even the normally unflappable Murphy missed a step as the eye-watering aroma abruptly leaped in intensity.

"What is that?" Johnson asked rhetorically.

"Dunno," Murphy replied as his brow furrowed.

Neither man said anything else as they continued on. The scent was intense enough to leave an aftertaste on the tongue, and neither wanted to face it any more than they absolutely had to.

The policemen were now near enough to the canal to hear the small splashes and evanescent trickling of the water as it meandered lazily along its course. It was nearly loud enough to drown out the small groan that came from nearby - but only nearly.

Johnson and Murphy cautiously followed the small sounds and the smell, and soon found the source of both. "Dang," Officer Johnson observed, shielding his nose again as he looked down on their discovery.

Lying on the bank of the canal, in the center of a patch of well manicured grass that was lying flat on the turf - weighted down by an iridescent black, viscous fluid, was a teenage boy. His gender was immediately apparent since he was mostly naked - entirely so from the waist down (aside from some black rubber slippers), and the same slimy goo that coated the swath of grass also covered him.

"Check his pulse," Murphy instructed, quietly radioing in their discovery. From the small movements as he twitched uneasily in either sleep or unconsciousness, and the groans and moans he periodically emitted, it was clear he was alive - if not entirely well. Given the smell, his uneasy rest was unsurprising.

"Strong and steady," Johnson reported, shaking his hand roughly in an attempt to flick away the goo that had been transferred from the boy's neck when he checked the pulse in the throat. "He's probably just drunk."

"Looks like it," Murphy tipped the brim of his hat back as he looked around. Aside from the goo covering the area around the boy, there was no sign of anything else amiss - and the fact that he was the source of the stench that was disturbing the animals was equally obvious. Eye-wateringly obvious, in fact.

Johnson spread and closed the fingers of his hand, and the slime stretched and consolidated with the movements, gleaming with an oily sheen that might have been pretty had it been associated with something less mucous-like - or less odoriferous. Shuddering, he bent to swirl his hand in the gently rolling water of the nearby canal to rinse the goo away. It was surprisingly tenacious in clinging to his fingers, but finally yielded to the water. "What do you suppose he got into?" he wondered aloud, wiping his hand dry on the side of his pants. "This stuff's really nasty - it's almost like someone sneezed."

A sound halfway between a snort and a chuckle emerged from behind Murphy's mustache. "Two will get you five he's from the university. This one's a new one on me, too, but you'd be amazed what kids with a little creativity, a little training, and access to a chem lab can cook up as a prank. Believe it or not, I've smelled worse. He was probably drinking with his buddies, and they decided to have a little fun with him when he passed out. I'm just glad he's not premed. Jokers with cadavers..." he shook his head. "I'd rather deal with a bad smell."

With a chuckle, Johnson agreed. "Bet there are polaroids of this waiting in his dorm room, too." He glanced down at the teen, and though his "sleep" wasn't restful, he didn't truly appear to be in distress. "So what do we do with sleeping beauty?"

"You haven't worked a spring break yet, have you?" Murphy reminded himself. "This will be good training. We get a few like this boyo every year. Not so many as some of the other precincts - we've got too many retirement communities and residential areas and not enough hotels and resorts to have the kinds of issues they do down the coast a ways.

"First thing is you go on up to that house," he gestured with his chin, pointing the way, "and see if the owner has a hose we can use - let's try to get him cleaned up a little; I'd rather not be smelling him on the upholstery in the squad car any longer than we have to. I'll bring the car down, and we'll take him in to get processed. We'll get a blood test done at the station to make sure he's not on anything more serious than booze, and let the medicos check him out. He doesn't look like he's OD'd, but it's always best to let 'em make sure he's really okay. After that, we can just let him dry out in a cell. If he's lucky, the judge will let him off with a warning."

Johnson nodded. "Get a sample of the snot before we clean him up?"

Murphy's grin was plain, even through the thatch of his mustache. "Might as well. Let the lab boys figure this one out. It'll be good for the boychick, too - it's a safe bet the judge will take one whiff and decide he's suffered enough."

His partner laughed, and agreed. "Let's do it then." The pair secured their sidearms, and headed back the way they'd come.

xxXXxx

"can you tell me your name?"

"can you tell me where you live?"

"do you know where you are?"

"are you on any prescription medications, or are you under the influence of any illegal drugs?"

"... don't worry; you'll just feel a little prick..."

Ron distantly heard the questions, and felt the sting as a small amount of blood was drawn from the inside of his elbow, but didn't respond. He couldn't remember how. His head felt like it was wrapped in yards of cotton wadding - everything seemed distant; thoughts, emotions, his senses - and he felt a vague sense that he shouldn't awaken the rest of the way - mustn't awaken. Why he felt this way, he neither remembered, nor cared to think about. Words continued to wash over him, but they passed through his ears as unheeded as the slight tug on his skin as something cool was pressed against the skin of his forearm where he'd felt the pinprick.

The voices continued, but Ron didn't heed them. He blinked uncertainly and irregularly, his eyes unfocused and bleary as he just drifted in a hazy "now."

"...vital signs are all stable..."

"...a few contusions, scratches... I've taken pictures..."

"...no, he should be fine..."

"...no sign of track marks, or..."

"...time for the blood..."

Ron was moving. He felt it. He knew it. And it was good. Movement was good. Why, he didn't know - but he knew it was. "Am I flying?" he wondered briefly, then decided it didn't matter. Colors and shapes crawled across his vision; none were clear and none lingered.

Something hard and square was pressed into his hands. His fingers wrapped around rigid metal corners, and his fingertips felt something soft and velvety. The contrast was nice. He liked it.

"...smile at the birdy..."

A sudden flash of light caused Ron to blink his eyes. He felt a surge of adrenaline that caused his heart to pound in his chest as something told him that light in the darkness was a bad, bad, bad, bad thing, but when the flash didn't recur, he just let his head loll as his heartbeat slowly returned to normal.

"he's really out of it... wonder how much he drank?"

He was moving again. Turning. Spinning. And then another flash - to the side. Ron blinked, and he was moving again. And that was better. "It won't get me if I move," crawled through his mind. It was a disturbing thought, so he banished it. It didn't return. And it was okay.

"...wonder what his buddies dumped on him. He still stinks even after we hosed..."

Ron felt hands on his; manipulating his fingers one by one. A cool sensation on his fingertips, followed by a gentle, but thorough pressure with a coarse, crinkling material. "That's fun..." he decided, and a small smile creased his lips.

"...nice bracelet. Guess we can rule out robbery..."

"... just bag everything. Let's get him dressed..."

Strange hands touched Ron - a sensation he found disturbing, but not enough to force him to breach the pall that covered him. He heard a metallic sound, and he felt amused as the word "zipper" ran through his mind. "That's a funny word," he decided. "Zzzzzzipper." He realized he liked the word.

"...easy there..."

"...get his legs..."

The faint scent of bleach, and cotton. The acridity of old urine. A faint hum, almost subliminal and subaural. A soft cushion at his back. Soft pressure on the back of his heels. Buoyed by the sensations, Ron's eyes drooped slowly closed, and he gradually faded out.

"... he's out like..."

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To be continued...