A black and white squad car, ‘Fort Miller Police Department’ stenciled on the side, was let through the back gate leading to the county jail. The car bounced along the uneven concrete usually only traversed by large trucks delivering food to the inmate population. Its destination was the loading dock. No deliveries to compete with for space, as they did not drop anything off at one in the morning. The occupants, a lion and sloth in the front and a panther bundled up in dark clothes in the back, did not mind the late hour or bumpy road.

The panther looked out the window. He put his various black clothes and wraps back on before they left the police station. His sunglasses he kept off. The milky opacity of the lenses vanished during his time relaying his story to the detectives, no longer giving him away as undead. Over his unnaturally long lifetimes, he saw a lot of government buildings. The last hundred years saw them becoming less ornate and more utilitarian. Prisons, jails, and dungeons seemed to be a constant. This was a two story, squat building made of uniformly tan bricks. Lots of barred windows to let light in without letting people out. The whole building was surrounded by steel fencing topped with round bundles of razor wire just in case that was not enough. Electronic locks too. Some things updated, but the classics remained the same. Drab and unimpressive, it said ‘if you don’t like your stay here, try not to come back.’

They pulled up to the loading dock and the sloth cut the engine. Both detectives left their car and let Thorpe out. They stood on either side of the car door and he stepped between them, feeling like a very important corpse.

On the ride over, the sloth introduced himself as Stanley Richmond. He spoke first. “Here we are, Mr. Eacott. This place should be secure enough to do what needs done.”

The building loomed high above them. It was not a place most went into willingly. Criminals of all stripes housed within and Thorpe did not number himself among them. It brought back unfortunate memories and misunderstandings. “I suppose it is.” He stated. “Though I must admit, a jail seems unnecessary. Could we not meet anywhere else?”

The lion, whose full name was Roger Whelan, moved to the other side of Thorpe. They flanked him, as if protecting a dignitary. “Nowhere safer that has access to the police archives. Might need them.”

“Hm. The archives?” Thorpe asked, mildly suspicious. “Why would we need those?”

“We’re going to need to look up every unsolved murder in the area.” Roger began. Thorpe was about to interrupt him, but he continued speaking. “We have access to a lot more resources than you did alone. Details not available to the public. You did good work, and we’re going out on a limb giving you access to this, but your story’s extraordinary enough to warrant it.”

That fed Thorpe’s ego enough to mollify him. He smiled and nodded.

The sloth looked up at the building. “It’s going to be a long night.”

“What’s a long night to me?” Thorpe smiled. Flesh over his muzzle started to mend, partially covering his teeth once more. While he did not look good, it helped make him appear less creepy. “But do take breaks if you need them, detectives.”

The irony of being brought in to get help from the police was not lost on him. Beings that lived this long tended to avoid authorities. Modern authorities had long memories and kept records. He disliked the idea of spending time on the wrong side of the bars; he had in the past and the caged life disagreed with him. Being able to discard an old body and move to a new one had its advantages. Even if this was a trick to lock him up or extract information he did not wish to share, he was smart. Escape was never impossible for a man of his powers.

Roger swiped a card across the reader next to the loading dock doors. It beeped and there was a ten second pause. A loud click announced the door was open.

“Every time we come here, it gets slower, I swear.” Stanley grumbled. “Thought they fixed that.”

“Does anyone really ‘fix’ technology?” Thorpe quipped. “I always assumed that when it broke, you had to get a new one.”

“Hm. You’re not wrong.” Stanley muttered.

Winding through the cafeteria storage and into the cell blocks, Thorpe took in his surroundings. Lots of generic beige tiles and concrete walls. The ceiling had insulated pipes crisscrossing overhead to convey water to the offenders’ temporary lodgings. Or permanent, depending on how badly they misbehaved. Bleach and mildew scents mingled in the air, each one growing to eclipse the other depending on the location. With old concrete and brick buildings, there was not enough bleach in the world to kill all the molds that crept into the walls. If one added the smell of musty books, you would get the smell of a library’s basement archives. The smells were what Thorpe associated with any large building of sufficient age.

As they walked, Roger stood at Thorpe’s back with Stanley leading the way. It made him feel a little like a freshly arrested perpetrator, but he ignored the feeling. These two had been in law enforcement for a long time. Habits came with the territory and this was ingrained into them through extensive training. Probably did not even think about it.

Thorpe’s thoughts drifted back to the Farmer. How he hated him. Anyone would hate the man who killed them. This man did it four times. Revenge would be sweet. A smile ghosted Thorpe’s lips as he pictured the gray freak caught in his trap. A circle of police around him, bringing him down in a hail of gunfire. He would survive it, but not the flamethrowers. Incinerate his body, burn it to cinders. Thorpe would be there, enjoying every second of it. From a distance, of course. But he would make sure to sneak close enough to see the final look of fear in his eyes before he died.

They came to a steel security door. Thorpe tilted his head. It looked older than the cell block doors they passed. Glancing around, the area was still clean and well maintained, but the floor tiles had their finish practically worn away. Older, perhaps?

“This area doesn’t see much use, does it?” Thorpe asked.

Stanley shook his head. “Nah. Storage. Just a bunch of junk back there now. But, it’ll help make sure we’re alone.” He glanced back at Roger. “Gonna get some coffee and a bite. Want anything?”

Roger shook his head. “Nah, not this time.”

Stanley walked away while Roger scanned his card over the door’s reader. It clicked after a single second pause. Holding the door open, the lion gestured with his head. “Go on in.”

Unease rippled between Thorpe’s ears. The lights were low in the storage room. He could see well enough in the dark, but the light shining in from the hallway made the contrast too stark. His eyes could not adjust well from light to darkness, the shadows in the room seeming darker. It was too open and empty to be a storage room. He could not see any detritus, just bare floor. He may have been around for a long time, but the reflex to step into a mysterious location to get a closer look was still present. Two tentative steps in the room and squinting eyes, trying to get them to adjust from light to darkness.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“Detective, I don’t believe-“ The door behind him slammed shut.

“Proditor spumae!” Thorpe bellowed. A trap! How could he be so ignorant? Never trust the word of an officer. Their two-faced nature never changed. He turned and slammed his fist against the door with all his might. The door shuddered on its hinges. A massive dent formed in the center, but it held. He smashed his fist into the same spot, the dent growing. The knuckles in his hand broke, but the bones would knit within an hour and the pain was nearly nonexistent. Just a signal he was damaged, nothing more.

His gaze darted around, trying to find a window. It would be easier to peel the bars off than break down a door. The police sought to lock him in, but he would not be contained. Whether they did not believe his story or wanted to study and interrogate him was irrelevant. He was not staying.

No windows. His only choices were to break down the door or die, and he would rather not lose this body so soon by snapping his own neck. Fist came back to pound on the door until it gave. The hinges were weak. If he hit it enough times, they would give.

A massive gray hand closed around his wrist. The grip was like steel rivaling that of the door. As strong as Thorpe was, the hand was stronger. Arm wrenched back, twisted, then a flash of silver. A farming sickle severed it near the shoulder. The arm tumbled to the floor.

Thorpe, practically seeing red, turned around and swung his fist. A reflex, aiming to knock the head off whoever dared cut off his arm. So focused on punishing the deputies, he did not think of who could possibly have enough strength to stop a blow that could rend steel.

An unusually long, gray arm came up, deflecting the punch past a large body. The hand turned, gripped, and pulled. The sickle flashed once more, this arm gone too. Thorpe staggered back, now quite literally disarmed. Lips peeled back in a soundless snarl, he looked up at the offender. The defiance died when he saw who it was.

A tall, gray skinned figure towered over him. Large boned, clad in a pair of patched up jeans, with a white t-shirt and gray overcoat. His right hand held a curved farming sickle, caked with clotted blood and bits of black panther fur. The low light reflected off his steel gray eyes, making them seem to glow.

Thorpe kicked the door and screamed. “The Farmer’s here! He’s in here! Help! Come get him!”

No answer from beyond the door. Calling for the police? He forgot who put him there.

A hand closed around his neck. He was tossed to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The gray man planted a foot on his abdomen and grabbed one of his kicking legs. Snip! Off it went. Snap! There went the other.

Armless, legless, Thorpe could only stare up at him. He recovered his pride and spat. “You motherless cur! You think taking my arms and legs will keep me here? It doesn’t matter how long, I’ll be out eventually. You cannot outlast me!”

The gray man tilted his head. He said nothing as nothing needed to be said. He leaned over, picking up Thorpe’s arms and legs. Clutched in the crook of his left arm, they were as a grim bundle of sticks. A creak sounded as the door opened. Detective Whelan stood there. Gun still in its holster, he looked relaxed.

“If you think he’s going to spare you, you’re wrong!” Thorpe advised. “He’s a killer, born and bred! I should know.”

“If you knew as much as you thought you did, you wouldn’t be here.” The lion stated. The gray man walked out and the door slammed shut, cutting off the sound of Thorpe’s curses.

The gray man stood in front of Roger, two arms and two legs writhing under his arm. The hands grasped and swiped, trying to tear his flesh. The legs kicked spasmodically to find purchase in his side and drive the air from his lungs. Even separated from his body, the undead panther could still control them. Neither man seemed bothered by the sight.

Anger welling in him, the gray man threw the limbs to the floor. He stomped them, breaking bones and splitting flesh. Again and again his foot came down. He wanted to reduce them to paste; make sure they were no longer a threat.

Roger put a hand on his shoulder, causing his head to snap up and glare. The look could have ignited paper, but the lion had nothing to fear. “David, that’s enough. With what he is, they’ll regenerate in time, no matter how much you smash them.”

David put his foot down, squelching the panther’s palm one last time. When he spoke, his voice was gutteral; it bubbled from deep in his chest as if through wet gravel. “Will take time. Keep breaking, or will try to free himself.”

Roger nodded. “He will, but we have steel boxes with sturdy locks. That should hold them.”

“Hn.” David grunted. “Good. But, he is smart. Do not let limbs near him, or will put them back. Or kill self to escape.”

“We’ll make sure they’re double layered.” Roger glanced at the security door. The bulge outside matched the dent inside. “Didn’t think he’d be strong enough to smash the security door, so we’ll be careful.”

Stanley returned with the warden; a tall, skinny greyhound named Bertrand Glessner. He had a correctional officer with him, an out of shape brown bear wearing a brown uniform nearly the same color as his fur. Stanley tilted his head, having never seen something quite like this, but something similar enough he was not rattled. The guard winced as if someone slapped him, but could not take his eyes off the limbs. Bertrand turned green under his beige fur.

“My God… Are those limbs moving?” He asked with mouth agape.

“Yes, they are.” Roger kicked one. It spasmed and tried a lazy swipe at his foot. It only managed to move a couple inches, the bones fractured in multiple places. “You’re going to need to keep them under lock and key. And a guard stationed outside this cell at all hours. If his limbs start growing back, go in and chop them off again.”

The warden paled. “Um, that’s… that’s rather extreme. You briefed me that he’s undying, but he can’t be that dangerous. Can he?”

David tilted his head down, eyes narrowing. “You did not see what he did to the children.” His voice came out more a snarl. The warden stepped back, eyes going wide for a moment.

Roger stepped forward to put something between the Farmer and the warden. “He is. You see what he did to the door? That’s what we’re up against. And you can’t kill him. He just jumps bodies.”

“As distasteful as it is having a mangled, animate corpse in your prison,” Stanley interjected. “It’s the best solution we could come up with.”

The warden glanced at the door. “You can’t mean he’s to stay here indefinitely?”

Roger shook his head. “No. Where there’s darkness, light can drive it out. I don’t know the method, but I’m bringing this case to the priest. If he doesn’t know how to send his soul to the beyond permanently, he’ll know someone who does.”

“In the mean time, constant guard.” Stanley poked a finger at the warden. “No visitors. If anyone dies in the prison, get their bodies out as soon as possible. If he does anything unusual, report it to Detective Whelan or myself.”

“This is weird as Hell and I must be crazy for agreeing to it…” The warden sighed. “But fine. Just get him out of my jail as fast as you can.” He looked at David. He had the urge to add ‘and take your murderous bum with you’, but thought better of it. He gestured at a chair by the door and the bear sat in it, staring at Thorpe’s expletive bellowing form.

David, Stanley, and Roger started to walk out. As they did, David glanced at the lion. “Trust him?”

Roger chuckled. “You may not believe it, but yes. He’s solid. Not the bravest guy, but won’t fold to threats or promises.”

“Hn.” David grunted, satisfied. “Wish he would stay dead.”

“He will. This time, we’ll make sure of it. And we’ll send him screaming to Hell, if he’s even done half of what you said.”

“No Hell is hot enough for childkillers.” David’s voice, darker than Roger heard before, made his heart skip a beat.

“Heh, guess not.” Roger played off his nerves. “But we’ll make sure justice is done. It’s good you brought him to us. We’ll make sure when he dies again, he won’t come back.”

They walked outside. Roger and Stanley moved ahead towards their squad car.

“Will find him if he does.” David stated.

“Yeah, heh. You managed to find-“ Roger turned his head to talk to David. The gray man was already gone. Vanished into the night. He still could not figure out how someone so big could do that.