Chapter 4: The Raccoon Effigies

When the outbreak hit, bodies stacked up every day. The Five Boroughs handled the east side, our patrol division took the west.

The air stank of bleach and death. Every morning, we loaded up trucks, drove out past the city limits, dumped another round of bodies. It was a job nobody wanted, but someone had to do it.

Usually, victims’ bodies went outside the city to be cremated. But some rich families didn’t want their dead burned with the poor, so they slipped us cash for special burials.

Envelopes changed hands in back rooms, promises whispered in the dark. Everyone knew, nobody said a word—not out loud.

Burying bodies was a rotten job, so I left it to Eli Sanders.

He never complained, just did what I told him. Sometimes I wondered if he was too good for this world.

Who’d have thought I misjudged him—he tried to cash in on the dead. After the burials, he’d go back at night, dig up the bodies.

He started coming in late, eyes bloodshot, pockets heavy. Rumors flew, but nobody dared accuse him—he was my "cousin," after all.

The reason, of course, was that the rich buried jewelry with their dead. Eli Sanders dug them up for the loot.

It was an old hustle—one I’d seen before, but never thought I’d see from him. Maybe the money got to him, maybe it was just the times. Either way, he crossed a line.

Nobody knows how much he stole, but the guys said that whole stretch, Eli Sanders lived large—every night at the Admiral Club, blowing cash like it was nothing.

He’d show up to roll call with lipstick on his collar, reeking of cheap whiskey and even cheaper perfume. The other guys joked, but I could see the guilt gnawing at him.

Then one night, after drinking with the girls, he staggered back toward the barracks. Curfew was close, church bells already tolling midnight. As he stumbled onto Maple Avenue, he saw a group coming from the city gate, shapes hazy in the streetlights.

The lamps flickered, and the group moved like shadows—silent, slow, deliberate. Eli’s skin crawled, but he kept walking, hoping they’d pass him by.

He wondered why the gate was open so late. Stranger still, the group walked in silence, heading straight for him down the main drag—spooky. But Eli Sanders didn’t think much of it and ducked into an alley.

He picked up his pace, boots slapping the pavement, the cold biting through his jacket. He glanced back, nerves jangling.

When he reached the street by the barracks, he looked over his shoulder—the group was still tailing him.

They moved in lockstep, never breaking stride. Their faces were gray, eyes shining in the dark.

Now he panicked, hustling for the barracks gate. Suddenly, the group broke into a run, chasing him.

He bolted, lungs burning, heart pounding, every step a prayer. The only thing that mattered was the light over the barracks door—a promise of safety.

Looking back, Eli Sanders saw—hell!—in the moonlight, none of them cast a shadow! Their faces and bodies were caked with dirt, like they’d just clawed out of the ground.

He nearly tripped, his mind screaming to run faster. He’d seen plenty of weird stuff on the job, but nothing like this.

Eli Sanders yelled in terror. Lucky for him, there were still guards at the gate, and seeing his panic, they let him in quick. As soon as he crossed the threshold, the group vanished. He caught his breath, asked the guards if they’d seen anything, but they all shook their heads.

The guards looked at him sideways, but let him in. He slumped against the wall, gasping, hands shaking.

He tried to laugh it off, blaming the booze, but the memory stuck. He slept with the lights on, door locked tight.

Some of the guys saw him sweating and asked what happened. He told them the story. They cracked jokes, offered him a shot, promised to keep an eye out. Only then did he calm down and get some sleep.

But the next morning, someone found muddy footprints all over the courtyard, leading straight to Eli Sanders’s room. The officer didn’t dare go in, so he came to wake me. I figured Eli had gotten into trouble, so I went and kicked his door open.

The prints were fresh, mud still wet. I thought it was a prank—until I saw the look on the officer’s face. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

What did I find? Eli Sanders was gone, and so were the jewels he’d stolen from the dead.

The room was a mess—bed unmade, window wide open, the safe where he kept the loot empty. No sign of a struggle, just those muddy prints.

The guards swore he’d come in, but he vanished—like he’d been snatched by something. It was terrifying.

We argued about it for days, some saying he skipped town, others whispering about ghosts. Truth was, nobody wanted to know.

I took a few guys and followed the footprints out of the barracks, all the way to a ruined chapel outside the city.

The trail led through the woods, past the old cemetery, right up to the chapel steps. The place was colder than the rest of the night, like the land itself was cursed.

At that point, none of my men dared go in.

They stood at the door, guns drawn, but nobody wanted to be first. The chapel seemed to breathe, darkness thick as tar.

Why? Because that’s where we’d buried those corpses.

The memory still gives me chills. The ground out back was soft, dirt freshly turned, the air stank of rot. We all knew what lay beneath.

Eli finished, licking his lips, giving David and Marcus a look that said, "Don’t you dare call me a liar."

He stared them down, eyes hard, daring them to speak. The fire burned low, shadows flickering on his face.

David shivered under Eli’s gaze.

He pulled his jacket tight, glancing at the chapel’s dark corners. The night seemed colder now, like something unseen was watching.

Eli barked, "What are you scared of?"

His voice rang off the stone, sharp and accusing. He leaned forward, eyes glinting.

David stammered, "It...it all connects..."

He swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper. Sweat beaded on his brow, cold despite the fire.

"What connects?" Eli pressed.

He didn’t let up, his tone relentless. The tension was thick enough to choke on.

David said, "These...these things...they’re all connected... It’s a family, a whole family!"

He looked at Marcus, pleading for understanding. His hands shook, knuckles white as he gripped his knees.