The Parodiopolis Museum is famed for its many and varied historical artefacts dating back to the prehistory of the Parodyverse. Like many large city museums with more artefacts than space, it holds a variety of semi-permanent exhibitions in order to rotate its vast cultural wealth. The Treasures from the Ancients display is one such exhibition which currently fills the new Cuthbert Wooster Exhibition Hall, east of the main, and oldest, museum building. One of the many drawcards to the display was to have been the fabled Golden Babe of Babylon, a rather ugly pure gold statue of what – according to most who see it – resembles a deformed baby. Dated by experts as at least 5000 years old it is said to represent a demonic god worshipped by people of ages past.

Captain Garry McAveny of the Parodiopolis Police Force grunted to himself at the empty space on the white plaster plinth where the statue should have taken pride of place in the main entry foyer – a converted glass atrium designed by renowned Dutch architect Jules Van Dehoren. The four-story high revolutionary-in-design glass windows now lay in millions of shards covering the new cream marble flooring of the foyer – the Golden Babe nowhere in sight. McAveny turned to the young man next to him.

“So ya see – something got at the Golden Baby,” McAveny stated the obvious, being a man of the type to do so.

Scarmander Torq nodded gruffly and bent down, touching the ground as he did so. A young man in his early twenties, he was dressed in black combat boots, black cargo pants and a black muscle-top. His fingers poked through black leather finger-less gloves. Interestingly he had a small backpack and what appeared to be an abseiling rope on his back, as well as various belts and pouches attached to his hips and legs. Strange blue tattoos encircled his left bicep in a seemingly celtic pattern - to the untrained eye at least. A shock of dark black hair fell over his eyes as he stood up. He brushed it back – though it fell back almost immediately.

He walked, slowly but with purpose, to the main door – also made of glass and also shattered. Again he bent down this time he pulled a small screwdriver from one of his many pockets. Captain McAveny followed him and looked on as Scarmander poked a strange dark puddle of goo that ran down the door frame with the tip of the screwdriver. He brought it up to his mouth and tasted it – grimacing for a moment – before looking thoughtful. “A mix of sump tar and artificial blood,” he informed the police officer, standing as he said it. “Well, close enough anyway, and that gives us something to go on.”

McAveny nodded, he knew it was a good idea to call Torq in, his own forensics team had told him it would take weeks to determine the nature of the goo – but it was all they had to go on.

“Robosapiens,” Scarmander continued. “It looks like one of them was hurt in the theft.” He pointed his screwdriver towards the goo. “That there is what you would probably call Robosapien blood.”

McAveny nodded, then looked out the shattered doorway to the open space beyond. “And you can track them can’t you?” He asked.

Scarmander smiled at the older man. “Of course.” He nodded. They didn’t call him the Urban Druid for nothing. There wasn’t much he couldn’t track in this city.


**********


Scarmander easily picked up the trail. He bent down and felt the concrete. It wasn’t hard for an urban druid to read the signs that no normal resident would notice. These were heavy robosapiens, two at least. There were signs that spoke to him in the language of one with a connection to the cityscape. Slight changes that the weight of the robosapiens left in the concrete indiscernible to anyone else. He looked forward and followed the signs as he read them. – hot on the trail of the thieves.

He headed off down Broadway, then turned left at Steson. It soon became clear the trail was leading into Old Town. Odd because that area is not a place where the robosapien citizens of Parodiopolis usually spent much time. Not an area where most decent folk spent a lot of time for that matter.

After numerous twists, turns and double-backs the trail led to a small alley way in a run down area of Old Town. Scarmander raised an eyebrow – the trail had stopped. It was almost like they had just vanished into the brickwalls of the surrounding building.

It was then that Scarmander paid full attention to his surrounds. It was then that he felt a chill and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Crude red pentagram and voodoo graffiti covered the walls. A skull of sorts, hard to determine by looks alone if it was human or animal or something else, sat atop a post planted in the middle of the alley.

Scarmander gave a small curse under his breath. He knew where he was now, and it was a dangerous place to be alone.

As if on cue to his thoughts a eerie mist suddenly appeared to seep out of the brickwork. Scarmander turned around and, sure enough, three pale figures in rags had entered the ally and were slowly lumbering towards him – the stench of death in the air.

Zombies!

The Zombies of Old Town to be precise.

Scarmander cursed again – loudly this time.


To be continued if the number of replies is good...