The cruiser roared around the corner.
“We should turn the lights on.”
“No way. We can’t afford the attention – not on a call like this.”

The call had come in over the radio just minutes before on a day that, until then, had been shaping up to be blissfully uneventful. Those days seemed to be less and less frequent in what was supposed to be an easy assignment in the suburbs for Officers Thompson and Dougherty.

“We get in, we get out,” said Thompson, not bothering to conceal the concern in his voice. “You know what will happen if we are spotted by any civilians, and I don’t even want to think about the media.”

“Agreed,” replied Dougherty sourly. He didn’t sign up for this. He joined the force to help those who couldn’t help themselves, but these orders came straight from the top. Career-minded officers knew better than do disobey a direct order from the Captain, especially on assignments like this.

They finally arrived at their destination to find the lot mostly empty. That was good. The cruiser slowed before entering, not wanting to draw any unwanted stares, but they were sure to come anyway.

“Do it,” said Thompson. “I’ll keep the car running. I want to be out of here just as fast as we came, but remember, no mistakes.”

“Roger that,” said Dougherty begrudgingly. At right this moment he was becoming everything he didn’t want to be; fulfilling every negative stereotype about police that had dogged him both at work and at home.

Dougherty exited the car and moved as quickly as he could to the door without appearing to be in an obvious hurry. This would be so much easier in plain clothes, he thought. The door was held open by a small piece of wood, and the smells coming from inside the building were unmistakable.

Only seconds after entering he found himself stared down by a man who appeared to be barely seventeen, his mocking grin as broad as it was humorless. He should be in school, thought Dougherty, but there was no time for that. The boy had made his decisions, and he had a job to do.

“And what can I do for you, Officer,” said the boy with heavy emphasis on the word “officer”, clearly hoping to alert his companions in the back to Dougherty’s presence.

Dougherty returned his stare just long enough to make sure the boy knew he would not tolerate any trouble, and then forced out the words he had been dreading. “Yes, um, I’ll need two glazed, a bear-claw, one jelly-filled, and just fill out the rest of the dozen with a mixed assortment. Do you take American Express?”

It was one of those hot, muggy summer days made for crowded swimming pools and ice cold lemonade. The air conditioner in my squad car was blasting valiantly but losing the battle against the scorching sun. I was looking for some shade when the call came in.

“Unit 14, man in tree, 2556 Beech Street. Fire department dispatched.”

I looked at my radio, wondering if the heat had finally fried it.

“10-5 dispatch, please repeat.”

“You heard me, Frank.” Sally’s voice was crystal clear. “Report of man in tree, 2556 Beech Street. Better get going.” I headed for Beech Street, not sure of what I'd find. The hottest days always bring out the strangest calls.

I was the first to arrive at the scene. I parked under a massive oak, thankful for the shade. Nearby, a woman was engaged in a conversation with the tree. I keyed my radio as I approached, wondering if this was going to turn into an involuntary commitment. Petite and in her late thirties, I figured I could handle her if she turned violent.

“ – said that two hours ago. I don’t believe you.” She seemed to listen, then stalked away as if disgusted by the tree’s response. I slipped the strap off my gun as I cautiously approached.

“Good afternoon, officer. Thank you so much for coming.” She gave me a look of relief.

“What seems to be the problem, ma’am?”

“We were out of milk this morning, so I asked my husband to go out and pick some up for breakfast. It seems like a simple request, don’t you think?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I thought so, too. Just a gallon of milk, then we’d eat our cereal and start our day.” She looked at her watch. “Now it’s 3:00, and I still don’t have any milk.”

“Ma’am, did you call the police and the fire department because you are out of milk?”

“No! Of course not! I’d never call the police over milk. I’d have made eggs before I called the police. No, it’s much more serious than that. Jim wasn’t paying attention when he opened the door and our Peaches ran out.”

“Peaches?”

“Peaches is our cat. He knows that she’ll do a door-dash if we’re not careful. I don’t know what he was thinking. He opened the door and she ran out. Jim took off after her, but his days of outrunning a cat are long behind him. She was up the tree before he even made it off the porch.”

“So your cat is stuck in the tree?” I made a mental note to explain to Sally the difference between a “man” and a “cat.”

“No, Peaches came down a couple of hours ago. She’s inside.” She nodded at her house where a well-fed tabby was perched in the window.

“Ma’am, if your cat is safe, then I’ll cancel the fire department – ”

“But I didn’t call the fire department for Peaches.”

Sweat trickled down my back as I felt my temper slip.

“Ma’am, why am I here?”

“For him.” I followed her finger as she pointed at the tree. All I saw were dark green leaves, motionless in the humid air.

“Jim felt terrible, so he climbed up the tree to get Peaches. She came down on her own.” She looked up and waved. “Jim didn’t.”

“Honey, I told you that I’m fine. I’ll be down in a little bit. Why did you have to go and call the cops?” The voice came from high up in the tree.

Jim might not have been able to outrun a cat, but he sure could climb a tree. There, about two-thirds of the way up, a man in forties had his arms and legs locked in a death grip around a sagging branch. I could hear fire sirens in the distance.

“Sir, the fire department is almost here. Just stay where you are.”

“I’m fine. Really. I don’t need – ” Sirens drowned out the rest of his words as most of the town’s fire equipment squealed around the corner and screeched to a halt under the big oak. Burly firemen started to unload equipment.

“I told you, I’m fine,” Jim called. “I can get down by myself.” The limb shook as he inched forward, trying to find a way down.

It was obvious Jim would rather fall to his death than admit he was stuck – and it looked like that was going to happen. I tried to think of a way to stop him.

I pulled out my handcuffs and turned to his wife.

“Ma’am, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to – ”

“What are you doing?” Jim stilled.

“Sir, if you don’t need assistance, then I am going to have to arrest your wife for filing a false report. The maximum sentence is 30 days in jail and a $5,000 fine.” I looked at the activity around us. “I’d say you’re looking at the max.”

“$5,000, huh?”

I could tell the exact moment when Jim’s pride lost to his wallet. He slumped against the branch in defeat.

"I’m stuck. Send up the ladders.”

The hottest days always bring out the strangest calls.

Somewhere deep in a cloudy dream, Marvin heard something. His groggy brain couldn’t quite grasp what it was.

Brrrrrriiinnnnngggg!

His stuporous mind tried to weave the sound into the dream, but it wasn’t working.

Brrrrrriiinnnnngggg!

The alarm clock. Of course! Reaching a hand in the general direction of the noise, he stomped it out. Peace.

Brrrrrriiinnnnngggg!

The phone, not the alarm. Peeking through one eye slit, he pushed the talk button in time for a dial tone. Missed it. Marvin slumped back on the pillows, his head pounding from too many drinks last night. Why did he always overdo it? He started to drift....

Brrrrrriiinnnnngggg!

“’Lo?” was all his cottony tongue could manage. Then he sat up, his head quickly clearing. “When? Uh huh. Be there in 30.” He lay back for a moment, then jumped out of bed, took some aspirin and a shower, and dressed. He squealed the unmarked onto the street, magnetic strobe flashing.

The on-duty flagged Marvin past the police barricade. He parked close enough to jog in 10 seconds. He jogged a lot these days, fighting the roll around his middle his doctor said would cause him an early – permanent -- retirement. Considering the heart trouble in his family, he took the warning seriously.

Refusing a donut, but gratefully accepting coffee, he went down the hall, stepping aside as a green-faced rookie exited the room, hand over mouth. This was going to be as bad as expected. Inside, his partner leaned over the mutilated corpse, face mask and gloved hands protecting the gruesome crime scene from contamination.

“Morning, Marv,” she said, looking up. “Medical examiner was here. Said it looked like a circular saw. See where the skin is ripped and flesh missing? M.E.’ll know more after the autopsy.”

“Thanks, Cher. No forced entry?”

“Talk to Jason. He and Shawn got here first.”

Marvin located Jason in a crowd of officers, who dispersed when they saw Marvin approach. “Hey, Jase. Heard you discovered.”

Jason gave Marvin his full attention, happy to repeat his story. “Next door neighbor reported strange noises outside. We didn’t hear anything, but stayed because she seemed really scared. I thought it might be a hearing aid issue like my Aunt Jane’s. Anyway, Mrs. Thompson was fixing some eggs, when we all heard the noise. Wasn’t much, just a scraping sound, a couple thumps, and some whirring. Shawn and I looked out back, but didn’t find anything. Nothing out front either.

“We came over here to see if Mr. Garcia knew anything. No answer. I went around to the back window with my flashlight to see if he was still sleeping. It was like some horror movie. I called for backup. Front door was locked, and no one answered. The doggy flap in the wall was way too small for us, so I kicked in the door. That’s not as easy as it looks on TV. Had to kick it four times. My leg still hurts.

“Funny thing, when the door opened, a jingly ball flew across the room. Garcia must have put it there when he locked up so he’d know if someone came in. There was another one by the back door. If someone left, how could they put the toy back? That made me think the perp might still be here, but we only found the victim. You saw him – looked like he had a run-in with a chainsaw. Anyway, that’s when the others started showing up.”

A new audience began to surround Jason as Cheryl approached Marvin.

“Have you seen the garage?” she asked, leading him there. “Look at this guy’s hobby.”

Marvin entered a workspace filled with electronics, wheels, metal, plastic, and a variety of table and hand tools. In the middle was a wheeled metal thing with a grinding rotator on the front, and “Hypergryph” on top.

“Combat robot,” Cheryl said as he studied it. “Like on TV? They build these nasty radio control robots, and fight them against each other. I’ll show you on his computer.“ She clicked a few times with the mouse, producing a website filled with combat robot stuff. She clicked some more, and a video showed Hypergryph shredding a robot called “Space Shark". A few seconds more, and Space Shark became landfill.

“Let me see.” Marvin took over. He watched several more videos, read some forums, and Googled a bit. “There it is,” he said as a crowd gathered.

“Garcia’s robot is a champ. It tears up everything. Tab Larson went over the top when his baby, "Death March", was annihilated. He built another robot -- see here? -- with a slim body, climbing ability, a webcam, and a long arm with a circular saw blade on the end. He waited until 4 am, then sent his robot along the sidewalk, up the steps, and through the dog door. He guided it down the hall with the radio and webcam. Being battery-operated, it only made a slight whirring noise, not enough to wake up Garcia. Once it raised its arm above the bed and spun the weapon up, it was too late for Garcia to call out. The robot left the way it came, and that’s what Jason heard from next door.

“Poor guy. What a horrible way to go.”

No one doubted that Marvin was right. He always was.

Simon sat in front of the computer, with his feet propped up on the desk. His legs were straddling the monitor, and he was typing around his legs. It was a very odd position, and it looked rather uncomfortable. But, he swore it was comfortable because it allowed him to stretch his legs. The near-yoga posture didn't actually affect his typing skills, so no one ever bothered to correct him. He was Simon, and there was no point in trying to prevent him from slouching. He was the physical manifestation of slouching.

On this particular night, Simon was actually doing his creative writing homework before it was eight o'clock. There was a perfectly good explanation for this fact: he wanted to sleep tonight. He wouldn't, though. He'd stay up late. Again. It was very hard for him to focus on things. After all…the Internet icon was staring at him, with its little symbol there, right on the Windows task bar. Well, he would make do. After all, most people stayed up later than he did, and they always did fine. "Perhaps being the physical manifestation of slouching is hard work," he said to himself.

Suddenly, there was a brilliant flash of light, and Simon nearly fell out of his chair. Well, perhaps falling isn't the correct word. It would probably do better to say that he nearly jack-knifed to the floor. But, you get my drift. The point is, Simon had been startled, making him even more nervous when he noticed a person had appeared in his room during the flash. The guy looked like some sort of officer, because of the shades of blue that were all over the uniform. The only variation from the blues was a ridged chest-plate of yellow, and orange gauntlets which had all sorts of buttons. Even the shiny boots were of a dark blue shade.

"Greetings, Citizen KS-420159. I am on a routine call to re-establish timeline unity, and to remove any remnants of the fifth dimension that you might have called. I…um…" the officer stopped in the middle of what was clearly a well practiced speech when he noticed the confused look he was receiving.

"Well, you are KS-420159, aren't you?" Instead of waiting for Simon to answer, he instead checked the cuff of his left gauntlet. "Oh, crap, it's only 2009. I'm sorry. You haven't been assigned your number by the Grand Harpo Empire, have you? Double crap! Look, forget I said anything. She hasn't revealed her plan on daytime televi…Y'know what? I'm gonna move on. I'm Officer Mandell of the Time and Space Patrol, and you are in danger of creating a class three tesseract."

"A what?" The shock was wearing off, giving Simon plenty of time to get confused. "Aren't tesseracts good? Like, didn't Madeline L'Engle say that tesseracts let people travel through time and space or something? I didn't get that book at all…but there was something about an ant crossing a folded line…"

Officer Mandell looked pleased. "Well, I'm glad to see you're catching on. The thing about a tesseract, or a breach in the fifth dimension, is that if you don't control it, it'll mess stuff up. Most people create 'em without realizing it. Heck, you were just about to yourself. So, I travel in a legit tesseract, and prevent people like you from making your own. That way, the universe won't explode. In your case, I'm supposed to prevent you from writing the official code of conduct for the Paradox Squad." Simon stared at the guy. Sure, he was crazy, but he knew exactly what he had been typing for his creative writing assignment! Officer Mandell smirked. Feeling smug about knowing things that others didn't was his favorite part of the job, and it was a part he did well.

"You see, KS-42…err, Simon…the thing is, you can't write that yet. If you do, one of your classmates will steal the idea. They'll start up the squad before you do, but their code of conduct will be lax. A black market will spring up, trading money and weaponry to the wrong periods of time, altering the time flow immensely. Eventually, the stress of the tesseracts will destroy reality."

"That's ridiculous!" shouted Simon. This was his best story idea yet, and he was not about to give it up. "How do you know all of that? That's a bunch of crap! You just want me to fail, don't you? Besides, if I can’t do it now, when will I? Huh?"

"I can’t tell you that. The only thing I am authorized to tell you is that you are to turn in another assignment, or risk further punishment."

"Then what am I gonna write about, huh?"

"It says here you make something up at the last hour. It's a sketchy plot that barely frames a random string of weird ideas which all break the fourth wall. You try to be funny, but it just seems flat in a few areas."

Simon signed. Clearly, the guy had won. He had used big words, as well as having a shiny uniform, so he must know what he was talking about. “Yeah, I’d better drop the time police idea. Probably for the best, anyway. It does sound like a weak story idea, huh?”

“Dispatch,” Constable O'Rorke said into the mike on his shoulder, “We're 10-7 at Alice's Restaurant.”

“10-4,” the staticky voice of Judy at dispatch came back, “Bring me one of those apple bombs.”

“You're dreaming Judy. It's past eleven. I'll be lucky if she has anything left at all.”

Constable Stan O'Rorke held the door for his ride along. Sylvia was a Special. She was training to work all the hours at half the pay and no gun. She peered at him briefly and must have decided that he was being courteous rather than sexist. He followed her in and they sat at the usual table.

“Coffee, black,” he said, and nodded at Sylvia.

“The same please.”

“How are you enjoying yourself?” Stan asked.

“All right,” she answered, “Though it seems a little quiet.”

“Don't say that --”

“Car 3, car 3 report to a disturbance at 133 Ridge Drive.” Stan was already scratching the address in his note book. The waitress handed Sylvia their coffee as they headed out of the cafe.

“Never say it's quiet,” Stan said, “We'll be running all night.” They climbed back into the car and he drove quickly toward Ridge Drive. “We don't put the siren on unless we need to. No sense in letting them know we're coming.”

Stan was all too familiar with the address they were rapidly approaching. Little James lived with his step-mom and occasionally his dad Big James, whenever he was out of prison. He listened to the chatter on the radio. It was a busy night. He took advantage of a break to ask dispatch to give him the wants and warrants on the family. Not one of them had a clean sheet. Little James was wanted on several warrants for breach of parole.

Ridge Drive was dark and quiet when he pulled the cruiser into it.

“Looks like nothing much after all,” Stan said, “But keep alert anyway, this guy has a rep as a fighter. The sergeant would have my hide if I got you hurt.” He led the way to the back door. Betsy opened the door before he could knock.

“Evening, Betsy,” Stan said, “Having a little trouble?”

“That girlfriend of James' was here and I give her a piece of my mind. Not that it'll do the minx any good. I guess we got a little loud.”

“Is James here?”

“No,” Betsy said, nodding her head.

“Do you mind if we just take a look around?” Stan asked, “Then I can tell them we checked it out.”

“You ain't going to find anything,” she said, nodding her head again, “But suit yourself.”

She backed out of the door way and let them enter.

“Stay here in the kitchen and keep sharp.” Stan told Special Constable Sylvia. “This will only take a few moments. He followed Betsy into the rest of the house. The woman meandered through the house opening doors at random. Stan shone his flashlight into the corners, but he didn't expect anything to come out of this. Little James was likely long gone, if he'd been here at all. That's why he was taken by surprise when Betsy flung open her closet door to reveal Little James hiding behind the nightgowns.

Stan was pushed over by the desperate man's rush and he heard the footsteps heading toward the kitchen.

“Watch out!” he yelled as he struggled to his feet. He heard a yell from the back of the house then a clang and a crash. He ran back to the kitchen to discover Little James lying on the floor and S.C. Sylvia standing over him with a frying pan.

“That's my good frying pan!” Betsy said, “You better not have dented it.”

“Looks OK,” said Sylvia as she put it back on the stove.

Stan saw Little James getting up.

“Don't do it.” he said. The other man's shoulders slumped and Stan was able to put the handcuffs on him without a struggle.

“Don't make them too tight,” Little James said, “They hurt my shoulder.”

“You should have thought about that before you broke parole,” Stan said, helping him to his feet.

“I was going to come in anyway. I was just waiting for my old man to get out of prison.”

Sylvia looked up at Little James.

“How big is his father?” she asked.

“He's not called Big James because of his height...” Betsy smirked at her.

“Oh...”

“Why didn't you say he was here?” Stan asked.

“I knew he was listening. Didn't you see me nod my head?

“Sorry,” Stan said, “I'll come by tomorrow for your statement.” He led his prisoner out to the car, followed at a safe distance by S.C. Sylvia.

“Drink your coffee, Sylvia,” he said, “You deserve it. Wait 'til I tell the guys about this one.”

Stan started the cruiser.

“Dispatch,” he said, “We're bringing one in.”

“Hey, could you take me up to Prestown?” Little James said, “They have a nicer jail.”

Sylvia rolled her eyes as she drank her coffee. Stan grinned at her then put the cruiser in drive, ignoring the complaints from the back seat.

It was 8:38 a.m when the call came in. My partner and I were in the squad car. Peeping Tom reported.

“O'Malley here. Do you have any description of the subject?”

“Yeah, but you aren't going to like it,” dispatch replied.

“Try me.”

“Caucasian male, wearing a coonskin hat, a yellow rain slicker, diving flippers, and carrying what appears to be a long cardboard tube.”

My partner, Feeny and I looked at each other.

“Dispatch, would you mind repeating that? It came across garbled.”

“Witness is reporting the suspect is a Caucasian male, wearing a coonskin hat, a yellow rain slicker, diving flippers, and carrying what appears to be a long cardboard tube.”

“That's what I thought you said. Do we have a psychological profile available?”

“On the suspect? We don't even know who it is.”

“No, on the witness idiot!”

“No, but we are sending two people out to do a psychological evaluation now.”

“So social services is involved?”

“No, it is strictly in-house Dr. O'Malley.”

“I was afraid of that,” I said. “Remind me to complain to the Lieutenant about dispatch when we sign in tonight,” I said to Feeney.

“Well look at the bright side,” Feeney observed, “at least if the description is correct we won't have any problem picking him out of a crowd.”

I drove us up to 1313 Mockingbird lane, a neat little house in a good neighborhood. Since we didn't see the suspect, I went up and knocked on the door. A lady opened it, and I got an immediate sense of dread. I have never felt anything like it in my 15 years on the force. The house was occupied by about a dozen cats – and not much else. In fact, you would wonder if anybody really lived there. She said she was Sarah Livingston,, she had called in the report, and she verified the description adding that she thought the cardboard tube looked like a weapon. I had Feeney take down the details, as well as examine her ID, and I went out to search the grounds. The sense of dread vanished when I left the house.

Feeney came out and joined me. “That was one weird place,” he said.

“Yeah, and you noticed? No Telephone, no TV, no stove, no refrigerator, just that crazy lady and her dozen cats.”

“Yeah, well it felt good to get out of there.”

We looked around and I finally spotted them – flipper tracks. They led to a set of bushes at the back of the yard, and hiding among them was the suspect – flippers, rain slicker, cardboard tube and all.

“Sir would you mind stepping out here?” I asked.

“Shhh! She will see me,” he replied.

“Bad news: she already has,” my partner chimed in, “who do you think called us?”

It was at that point I remembered the house had no phone. This was definitely getting weirder.

“OK sir, come on out now,” I said, rapidly loosing my patience. He came out. “Do you have a name?”

“Zartan”

“Occupation?”

“Law Officer..”

At this point Feeney snickered under his breath.

“Place of residence?”

“Pardon?”

“Where do you live?”

“The XxyXXZ system, third moon around the planet Platz.”

I don't know why I was expecting anything different. “OK sir, we need to go to the squad car now.”

“But I need to watch the Flogztz.”

“The what?”

“The thing in the house.”

“There is plenty of time for that later,” I said, as I took one arm, and my partner took the other.

We marched him to the patrol car, locked him in the back seat, made sure he was secure, then got in ourselves. I started driving to headquarters, and called in with our location. “This is car 54, we have the suspect in custody, and are coming back to headquarters now.”

Feeney in the meantime was tugging at my arm. I ignored him until I completed the report.

“OK, what do you want?”

He pointed at the back seat, which was empty.

I said several not nice words, and turned the car around.

“I thought you locked the door?”

“I did,” Feeney replied.

Somehow I knew that.

We got back to the complaint address, and were greeted with the sounds of an awful ruckus from inside. We drew our service revolvers and went in.

The woman, who was now half woman, half something out of a nightmare, spit a greenish substance at Zartan which dripped harmlessly down his slicker. Meanwhile the 'cats' were attacking from all sides.

Zartan aimed his cardboard tube at the monster, and blew it into a “nothingness” at the center of the room, then jumped through himself followed by the cats.

“O'Malley?...” Feeney said shakily, “did you see that?”

“I didn't see nothing, and neither did you.”

“Well it is going to be interesting how you explain the disappearance of the suspect then.”

“Yeah, it is going to be one heck of a report, and you are going to back up every word of it.”

“Or?”

“You can write it yourself.”

You always dread getting calls like these. Part of you hopes it turns out to be nothing, and a part of you still gets a little thrill at the thought you could find something interesting for a change . . . but mostly you just know it’s going to be unpleasant and paperwork-rich and you wonder why it always has to happen on your shift.

“Croydon 311, come in.”

Megan grabs the radio from the console. “Croydon 311, over.”

“Got a report of a rotten smell coming from a house in Croydon Hills, you free to do a welfare check?”

Megan looks over at me, making sure it’s ok. She’s still a probationary, only two weeks at the station, and she’s a sweet girl but needs to work on her confidence. “Sure, we’ll check it out,” I say and I turn the van around as we get the address.

We pass through the leafy sleeping suburbs, turning down shortcuts as the houses get bigger, slightly more upmarket. Megan checks her watch as she jots the job down on the running sheet: 2356 hrs, not even an hour into our shift.

We turn a corner and can hear a party in full swing, throbbing bass deafening, and I slow down and flash the lights. “Bit loud for a Tuesday night,” I mutter. A beer bottle goes flying over the fence but the music is switched off. “We’ll swing past on our way back, make sure they don’t start up again,” I look over at Megan. “You ready for this? Know what you’re probably going to see?” She nods as I pull up to the address.

The grass is overgrown and there isn’t a light on. We both make notes in our diaries and walk up to the front door; you can smell the stench from half-way up the path. “Poor old dear’s probably been lying there for weeks,” I say. Our breath steams in the frosty air and I knock: no answer. We check the backyard, knock on the windows but still no response.

We get permission to force entry, and I let Megan have a go. She’s pale and shivering, I’m guessing from the cold, but she smashes the narrow pane beside the door easily and the smell of decay hits us like a physical force. Once inside I try the light switch but the power’s out so it’s Maglite time and we walk towards a closed door, the source of the stench.

Megan’s already blenching as I turn the handle and she screams when she sees what’s inside, and I don’t blame her: four bodies, decapitated and strung by their legs by ropes nailed to the ceiling. It’s like a horror film, ‘cept not in the movies but on our patch. She covers her nose and mouth with her hand and I radio in.

“This is Croydon 311, we’ve got a bit of a situation here. I need you to notify . . .” The sound of a shotgun loading cuts me off and we both move our torches to a balclava-clad figure moving through the doorway at back of the room.

“Your radios, ladies,” he says. “Throw them into the centre of the room.”

I unclip my receiver; the gunman doesn’t notice me press the emergency button as I toss it across the floor.

“And your guns.” They go too, and our batons and our OC spray and every piece of equipment from our belt. “Now face the wall. Hands behind your heads. And don’t turn around.”

“Listen, do you really want to do this . . .” I start but find the shotgun pointed straight for my head.

“Face the wall,” he repeats coldly. His lack of irrationality frightens me and I can see Megan shaking beside me as I comply. I can hear him gathering our equipment and it sounds like he’s placed them in something metal.

“Your names?”

“Leading Senior Constable Erin McLaughlin,” I reply.

“And yours, young lady?” But Megan can only manage a squeak.

“She’s Constable Megan Scholl.”

“I didn’t ask you!” he hisses and I hear him fire. I wince, my heart racing and my eyes watering but Megan crumples beside me, whimpering: she’s hit in the back of the thigh. At the sound of the shot another cry came from deeper within the house. “Stay there!” he yells and I wait until I hear his footsteps recede.

I had to move fast. “Get out, quick!” I whisper at Megan as I crouch down, hiding behind the furniture and dodging the dangling putrid remains until I find what I'm looking for: the rest of the rope. Tying one end to the edge to the leg of a cabinet on the right side of the doorway, I creep over to the left, holding the rope as hard as I can just above the floor and I hope like all hell this works. I can hear Megan dragging herself away down the corridor.

“Help!” I yell, and I hear him running back towards the room. I tug the rope tight as he crosses the threshold, the shotgun flying out of his hands as he trips and falls to the floor. With adrenaline screaming I jump up, pinning him to the floor and pulling his arm back as he struggles underneath me.

And then I hear the most beautiful sound in the world: the sound of approaching sirens.

"Car 13, are you 10-34?"

"Affirmative", Officer Pendleton responded.

Car 13 proceeded to turn into the neighborhood he grew up in and was very familiar with. He figured on such a nice and breezy Saturday afternoon, kids would surely be playing in the streets. The precinct recently started to encourage interaction amongst the youths of the community rather than wait for something to go wrong to intervene.

Officer Pendleton turned left onto the street that he grew up on. Flashes of him and his friends playing basketball and tag flooded his mind as he drove slowly up the street. "The Miller house, the Stafford house, the Berkshire house" he thought as he passed each childhood memory.

The Officer's attention quickly turned to the crowd of teens and children that he saw playing in the street about four houses away. This was his time to shine; His time to pass on some knowledge and wisdom about safety and to pass on the importance of school and family values. Smiling, he flipped the switch once on and off to make the lights and siren go off to catch their attention.

The kids all moved to the side of the road to let the officer pass by, but to their surprise, he stopped the car and turned his lights on as a warning to other vehicles. Officer Pendleton grabbed his hat from the passenger seat and stepped out of the vehicle with the presence of a hero.

The officer walked over to the tallest boy who was in possession of the basketball. "Want to play a game of PIG?" he asked. All the kids chuckled and tried to keep their cool until he began to laugh contagiously.

Officer Pendleton knew that he at least had their interest and attention now and began dribbling the ball while talking about the importance of being safe while playing on the street. He gave the well known speeches about strangers and cars and staying out of trouble. He stressed the importance of school and obeying their parents. All the children just stood there looking at him while he dribbled his ball and preached his lessons.

"Officer, what does it feel like to be handcuffed?" asked the tallest boy that the officer had first approached. This question stopped him right in his tracks. He tossed the basketball to the kid and asked his name.

"Brian" he said.

"Well Brian, I can give you something better than an answer to that. If you experience being handcuffed maybe you'll think twice about getting into trouble. Come to my car, Brian."

All the kids scampered to the police cruiser being interested more than ever. Brian acted like the tough guy of the bunch and also got a rush from being spotlighted for his simple question.

Officer Pendleton reached in the car and grabbed the handcuffs he had on his belt in the car. He reached for Brian's right hand and with firm snap, the handcuff engulfed Brian's wrist and locked. He then proceeded to take the other cuff and attached it to his door handle on the car.

Brian didn't feel like this was as much fun as it was going to be. He immediately felt restrained and bound. All the other kids were laughing and pointing. Officer Pendleton intervened and continued his speech about staying out of trouble. He basically made an example out of Brian by making a strong visual point.

Brian said he was ready to released and sounded like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Officer Pendleton knew that he didn't want to hurt or scare him, so he fumbled for his belt to get the key. "The key.....the key.....Where is the key?" Officer Pendleton realized that his partner must have taken the keys by mistake during yesterday's bank robbery arrest.

"Car 13 to base. Calling in a 10-48 and requesting back up and a set of handcuff keys."

"10-4. Sending Back up. ETA 5 minutes."

Screams of joy ensued from the crowd as the second police cruiser drove up the street towards them. Officer Pendleton, with head hung low, approached the second cruiser to see his partner grinning from ear to ear. He immediately knew he would be the laughing stock of the station for this mishap.

Officer Pendleton returned to his cruiser and un-cuffed Brian and made sure he was emotionally and physically okay. All the kids swarmed Brian in hugs as if he were gone for a whole month. The officer apologized just as his radio went off in his car once again.

“Car 13, we have an 11-83, can you respond?”

“Affirmative” Said Officer Pendleton as he pulled away. He drove off knowing that he would have a lot to explain to his piers. He also realized that sometimes teachers can be students.

Urgent Call As Reported By Sgt. Blake Stone

Friday July 4th, 2009

I was just lying around in the squad car last week, sipping on coffee and finishing up my last of the dozen chocolate cream filled doughnuts when I got the call. It was approximately 2 in the afternoon.

It awoke me from my hazy slumber and made me pay attention – as if I should be actually earning my pay.

Anyways, there was a Code 3 on the radio – meaning that a cat had scratched a sofa cushion.

I slowly slipped on my shoes and put away the porn magazine and woke up my partner Joe, who had fallen asleep in the backseat of the cruiser.

The 911 call was to a house a block away from us.
I turned the key, switched on the lights and siren and floored the gas…hitting the highway at 120 mph. Coming to a sudden stop, I rammed the front of the house steps as Joe and I grabbed our shotguns and burst through the front door.

Odd, I stepped inside to find the house empty…then I realized that we had the wrong house on the wrong street.
We hopped back in the car, I reversed the vehicle, then raced off around the corner, narrowing the kids playing street hockey.

One of the kids whacked the window of the car with a stick. I stopped, jumped out, Joe grabbed the kid and we slammed him up against the hood, bashing his head against the fender as we searched him and tazered him.

Joe asked his name and checked for weapons on the kid…apparently he had a hockey stick hidden in his shorts and we had to cuff him up and lay a beating to him.

After laying boots to him for 5 minutes, we shackled him up and threw him in the backseat, knocking his head on the door frame.

He lay unconscious in the back seat and Joe and I were able to continue with our mission.

Once again in true swat style, Joe and I kicked in the door, began firing a round of bullets into the walls and ceilings and then began looking around.

I was overwhelmed that my training in watching every CSI and N.Y.P.D. Blue episode ever produced had become useful.

This tactical move was a very skilled trait that I have now mastered and can competently perform in any required incident.

Now as nobody was present, I carefully made my way into the kitchen, opened the fridge door and took out a beer and the remaining apple pie. I had to test the beer and pie for evidence as to see whether the items had any drug inducing composites that may have encouraged this sort of violence from the cat.

Joe, whom was rifling through the drawers of the bedroom, assured me that the Rolex watch and gold rings and women’s lingerie were also suspected of being stolen property from an ongoing criminal investigation in November, 1824; so he made every attempt to carefully contain all the evidence in his pockets for later inspection.

Now as I recall - that’s when the cat jumped out from behind the closet door with a machete and wielding an axe. The cat which was obviously high on crack and methamphetines at the time was swearing and threatening us.

It was a very unruly cat and was trying to kill my partner Joe, who was cowering in the corner because of this evil creature.

The couch which we had passed was very distinctly marked with Swastikas and gang insignia. This is a sign that the cat was into some heavy criminal element; possibly due to the amount of marijuana which was scattered on the table.

It was my quick, effective and imperative decision that I blast that homicidal kitten with every bullet I had, so that Joe; my good friend and co-worker and honest officer and myself would not be mauled to death by this insane, hideous creature.

As the cat was swinging ferociously with every move it made, I realized that I had to empty every round I had into this unstoppable beast.

I ended up using 12 rounds of ammo and Joe also unloaded all his fire on this beast.

The cat still was hard to settle.

At that time, it was just luck that I happened to have a grenade in my back pocket and as the animal made another attack towards me, I jammed the grenade in its mouth and pulled the pin.

At last, the vile, demonic spirit was put to rest. Of course I regret that I had to result to using force in such a dramatic circumstance, however I feel very assured that the neighborhood is a far safer place and the residents of the area can sleep better knowing that Joe and I were on duty to end and increasing threats to the community.

The couch was preserved with minor damage and at present is still in use by the woman in the house.

I feel though she is nearly 95 years of age, which she appreciates the security that the force offers her and others in the community.

It has been my honor to protect and serve my city with pride, dignity and the respect that I will adhere to all dangerous and non-threatening situations in the near future.

SGT. BLAKE STONE

Rob & Dave were returning to the station at 1am, after an uneventful 13hr shift when the call came in.
"Unit 512, do you copy?"
"Unit 512 here, over," Rob replied.
"You need to get over the Johnson place. Domestic disturbance," said Wendy.
"On our way. Any details?"
"Rick's livestock's going crazy and he's got a half eaten horse."
"Inform the chief, I'll keep you posted."
When they arrived on the scene, everything appeared to be normal.
"It seems too quiet," Dave said as he hopped out of the cruiser.
"I agree," replied Rob.
There wasn't the usual sounds of the night. No rustle of the grass, not even the chirps of crickets.
"Something's wrong," whispered Rob, drawing his gun, "call for backup."
Rob slowly approached the house while Dave radioed dispatch.
"Don't go in there!" Somebody yelled.
Rob turned toward the sound of the voice.
"It's Rick Johnson. I'm on my water tower. You & Dave need to come up here," Rick said. The left sleeve of his flannel shirt had been torn off and wrapped around his right forearm.
"Come down and tell us what's going on here."
"I'm not coming down. We were attacked by a.....a man. He mauled Barbara and started eating her. I shot him, actually emptied my rifle into him and it did little more than slow him down."
"Rick, have you been drinking tonight?" asked Dave, as he strolled up.
"Not a sip. I know this sounds crazy."
They heard moaning and saw Barbara stumbling across the darkened front porch and fall down the stairs.
"There's Barbara, she looks a little intoxicated to me," said Rob, "Dave, go talk to her. Let's get some answers."
"Righty-O," replied Dave, heading toward the house.
Rob tried to convince Rick to come down.
"Barbara, it's Deputy Summers, are you alright?" He noticed that her left arm was missing at the elbow.
Then she lunged at him.
"Get off me. What are you doing?" yelled Dave, pushing her off, "you stop right there or I'll shoot."
Barbara continued to advance on him without hesitation. He pulled his revolver and fired 6 shots into her chest. With each shot, she was forced back a step, but continued to stumble toward him, moaning. He flung his gun at her, turned and ran toward Rob.
"I don't know what's going on here but I'm going up there with Rick. You should too. I shot her 6 times and she's missing her left arm.
No sooner had Dave put his foot on the first rung of the ladder, when the man who attacked the Johnson's came stumbling out the front door, still gnawing on Barbara's severed arm.
"Go faster Dave. I'm coming up too," shouted Rob, pushing Dave up the ladder.
At the top, both men just sat there, silent, for a minute.
"What do you reckon's going on? It's not natural," asked Rick, shaken but fairly composed, considering what he just witnessed.
"I'm not sure but at least we're safe for now," Dave answered, "let's just wait till backup arrives."
"They smell like road kill."
"Do you hear that? I think there's moaning coming from the corn field," said Rob.
" You don't think there are more do you?" asked Dave.
"I don't know what to think," said Rob, "do you have ideas Rick?"
"I don't feel good, I think after the last few hours, I need to lay down and rest," Rick said, "If I doze off, wake me when your backup arrives."
"He doesn't look good. Did you see the way his face looks?"
"I know this sounds bad, but if he has what they have, we need to be ready," whispered Rob.
"Look, there's two more."
There were now four rotting, fleshing eating people (creatures) standing at the bottom of the water tower, moaning endlessly, trying to get to the three men above.
A second unit finally arrived. Sheriff Brasher & deputy Jones jumped out, guns drawn, but being grossly uninformed, were quickly overtaken and devoured.
"Now what are we going to do?" asked Dave. "Wait. Someone will come. We'll have be ready to alert them to stay in the car. We need them go get as close to us as possible. Then we can jump on the roof and be driven to safety."
"What about him?" Dave asked, pointing at Rick.
"If he can make it, he can jump too. Will you check on him?"
"Rob, I think he's dead, there's pulse. What should we do with him?"
"Leave him or push him over the side? It's up to you."
"We need sleep. You sleep first," Rob said, "I'll wake you if I need to."
Four hours passed, Rob was just about to wake Dave then he caught some movement out of the corner of his eye. It was Rick.
Rick sat up, tried to stand up, and stumbled off the platform to the ground below.
"Dave get up, I need to sleep," Rob said, kicking Dave's foot.
When Dave got up, Rob told him what had happened and laid down to rest.
Two hours later, Rob woke to Dave yelling at someone to stay in the car. It was Ben Addams delivering the newspaper. Ben got out to see what the yelling was about. The people (zombies) swarmed him and started feasting.
"Let's make a run for it. They're slow."
The two men climbed down the ladder and started running......