The authority of a deputy came with little fanfare, but it also came with little legitimate authority. Scott signed a slip of paper in front of witnesses, mostly something just for the current situation in the county and not a typical requirement. Primarily it was a release form stating that he would not sue the county if he was injured in the line of duty.

One thing on the paperwork drew his attention. He quietly asked the sheriff about it, and the older man nodded. “Yes. I can’t legally hire someone with a record. You aren’t receiving a paycheck and this counts as an emergency.”

“So, I’m a grey area?” asked Scott.

“The best way to look at it,” agreed the Sheriff. “We’re going to have to keep this quiet, though. If the mayor’s office gets wind of it…”

“Right,” said Scott. If he could not join the militia, he certainly should not be a deputy in the eyes of the government.

“What now?” asked Scott. “You mentioned the mayor like he’s important, somehow. Aren’t you in charge of looking after the whole county?”

“Let’s get you back to the station and cleaned up. Should probably find you a uniform since we don’t know how long we’ll need the extra man-power,” replied Sheriff Payne. He gestured to the back of his car. “That lady friend of yours is already heading that way in an escort van.”

Scott hopped into the back of the card and sat down with his knees slightly elevated. It was cramped in the back, not designed for comfort in the slightest. Other than that, the vehicle was no different than most cars. The police in the local area did not use their cars like mobile jails. If someone was arrested, they usually rode in the front passenger seat with a second officer in the back. Though, there were a few vehicles with cages and perp-locks. The latter of which were not substantially different from the child safety locks used in civilian sedans to prevent small children from accidentally opening the doors.

“I see you brought the picnic basket,” said Scott.

Sheriff Payne could not help but smile. The picnic basket was something of a joke between him and Scott’s father. It was their name for the wagon used to haul off several people at once. Unlike most of the local police vehicles the picnic basket was tightly sealed and did serve as a mobile prison.

“Hopefully we won’t have to prep any fried chicken,” replied the Sheriff.

Scott closed his eyes and tried to fight back a chuckle. He failed. That was the name that the sheriff and his father had for people who committed capital crimes. Those chickens were probably bound for the electric chair, though in North Carolina it was more likely to be lethal injection or the gas chamber in the current era. The chair had not actively been used in decades. Still, it sounded better to call people who committed murder fried chicken instead of poisoned chicken. Not that they openly called them that anywhere that anyone might hear it who would take offense.

They drove off, while several men went to inspect the monster corpses. Scott had gathered materials already, so they were welcome to the kill. It’s not like he could stuff it all into his pockets. It was more likely that they would burn the bodies anyway to avoid attracting more monsters. From their point of view, people would not gain skills or levels in the waking world. Whether or not they started to craft items, or found interesting loot was another story.

Scott took stock of the city as they drove through the streets. Neither of the men talked for a while. There was a certain sense of exhaustion about the men in the front of the car. The Sheriff and his rifle guy had no doubt been unable to sleep for some time.

Eventually, Scott asked, “How’s Diane and Stacy? Did they make it through?”

“Moved them into the station house. Home wasn’t safe with all those windows on the first floor,” said the sheriff. “We lost a lot of good men that first night, and even more people outside of the force.”

The silence resumed. Scott kept his thoughts to himself. He had seen neither Stacy, nor Diane, in years. The sheriff’s real family stayed far from him.

Eventually, the Sheriff broke the silence. “I swung by your mother’s place…”

“She dead?” asked Scott bluntly, no inflection in his tone.

“No. She made it through,” replied the sheriff.

Scott nodded, but would not comment on whether that was a good or bad thing. He did, however asked, “Was she the only one who made it?”

“No. Someone else in the household made it,” said the sheriff quietly.

He nodded once more but refused to talk any more for the remainder of the trip. Learning that his stepfather was alive had soured his mood, even if it meant there was still a chance to bring him to justice once he sorted out the most recent issues. His life was no longer solely his own. There were people, important people, who might be counting on him.

The police station was nothing particularly fancy. A three-story concrete building with no windows on the bottom floor, it served as a perfect place to bring people in order to survive the current crises.

Scott tried to open the back door but found that it was locked. He glanced over to the sheriff, and he unlocked it. While he could take that as something that would happen automatically, it did not feel like that was the case.

It was little things like that locked door that kept Scott from trusting the man one hundred percent. He clearly wanted what was best for him. He had always also kept his wife and daughter far away from him. Some part of the sheriff, subconscious though it might be, did not trust him.

The interior of the police station looked like a war zone. The floors were freshly mopped, but Scott’s senses picked up the coppery tang of blood. There was a battle here. No amount of floor cleaner could hide it from him.

“Master!” called Sonja from a small cul-de-sac nearby.

“Master?” asked the sheriff.

Scott glanced at him but said nothing to the man. Instead, he turned to Sonja and nodded his head. “I’m glad to see you in one piece.”

“Is that not what I should be saying to you?” Sonja walked closer to him then leaned forward, one eyebrow quirked to indicate her curiosity. “Did you have fun while you left me in the hands of those lesser males?”

The rifle guy nearly choked when he heard her say that. He tried to hide his grin behind his hand, but he failed.

“They did not try anything,” said Scott.

“Oh?” she asked him, her eyebrow still quirked. “How is it that you know this to be true? Hmm?”

“You don’t smell like blood,” he said lightly.

“I could have washed it away,” she remarked.

“Not that much blood,” he said with a slight smile, though his irises brightened a little to mark his amusement as something that was also a true sentiment.

A playful light came to her eyes even as her eyebrow settled back into its normal position. “I see. I have taught you well.”

The sheriff glanced back and forth between them, his expression one of obvious uncertainty. Just what had Scott been up to in recent days?

“Well, sheriff. Should I show the new deputy to the showers?” asked the rifle guy.

“Deputy?” asked Sonja.

Scott nodded to her. “I’m helping.”

Her eyebrow quirked skyward once more. “I see.”

“Ah. Yes… Help this young man get cleaned up and find him a uniform if you would,” said the sheriff.

Rifle Guy, as Scott had now decided to call him, nodded then looked to Scott. “We don’t have much, but after what you did, I’m glad to help you get it.”

He looked down at the rather large sacks that Scott was carrying. They looked to be made from some sort of animal pelt, and from the looks of it that pelt came from the bear. “Though… I’m not sure what you are going to want to do with that.”

“I need to store this somewhere safe until I can head home,” said Scott.

“Right,” said Rifle Guy. “I see.”