Pixie, First Daughter of Anarchy: Book 2

Wrap Party

WARNING: Graphic violence, mention of blood, gore and death, also smut, smut, and more smut!

Unser did not like late-night calls out. He was too old, goddamn it! He wanted to be at home on his worn comfortable recliner with a glass of whiskey, his wife and the TV playing late night sit-com reruns so he could smoke and fall asleep and let his weary, ailing body rest. But here he was, driving out into the middle of nowhere with his fog lights on trying to get his squad car down a single-track unpaved lane to get to a shitty red house which had burnt to the ground. He could see the fire truck's siren lights reflecting through the trees in the distance, glowing ethereal blue and then dangerous red, repeating their pattern like a beacon for Unser's car, and sapping out the last of his relaxation time with every flash. From what he'd heard on the radio it sounded like a serious incident and he just hoped to go there were no bodies. Bodies were always something that gave him sleepless nights and guilt for not being able to help them in time. Unser knew realistically he was one, short, elderly man, he couldn't be with every resident in Charming at all hours defending them like some vigilante guardian angel, but any death that had occurred within the town borders during his time on the police force, had felt like a life that had slipped through his fingers. Tonight, brought his mind back to his first death.

He'd been on the job less than a year, had a full head of black hair, brogues so shiny he could see his reflection and a puppy-dog bounce in his step that marked him as a newbie. The sheriff at the time had been a portly elderly gentleman with a thick Tennessee accent. Sheriff Jackson Michaels went everywhere with a Stetson, a thick cigar, a white horseshoe moustache and old blue eyes. The call-out had been to a house fire, just like this one, something to do with a faulty boiler, if Unser's memory served correctly. Squeaky clean Wayne Unser had arrived at the scene, the rain had been falling, the sky was black, and the grass was crunchy after a long drought. He'd pulled on his coat and got out of his car, he was almost smiling, this was his first big happening! He fully expected to arrive at the scene seeing the family stood safely on the side of the road being consoled by the fire department and the other police officers and he would get to investigate the rubble, see how the pros did it, and get some more much-needed experience, before going home to his fiancé and talk about it with her. The second Wayne had rounded the end of the fire truck, going to Sheriff Michaels' side like an obedient lapdog, he knew it was bad. Sheriff Michaels had his back to the scene, there was an ambulance with a wailing mother inside and the haggard Sheriff had clapped both hands on Wayne's shoulders, looking into Wayne's youthful brown eyes.

"Have you eaten, son?" Michaels had asked. Wayne had thought the question odd but had replied without hesitation.
"Not for a while, Della cooked me a hotpot when I got home. Why, sir?"

"What I'm about to show you is somethin' that will stay with you son, it will make you, or it will break you. And I want to make sure if it breaks you, I'm not gonna have a rookie hurkin' his guts on the evidence." Michaels had told him sternly and strongly.

"That won't happen, sir. Nerves of steel." Wayne had promised.

Michaels almost looked at him with a pitying expression. "They all say that." He said finally, pressing his lips together in a deep frown, making his white moustache bristle. He gave Wayne one final look before stepping to the side, clapping one hand on Wayne's back and pushing him forwards.

"One deceased. Ten-year-old girl, Kitty Perkins. Bedroom was above the boiler, never stood a chance." Sheriff Michaels informed him bluntly, at the time, Wayne had thought his voice had sounded distant and harsh, but looking back, Unser mused that it sounded so detached because the elderly Sheriff was trying not to cry in front of his newest recruit. Wayne had struggled to work out what he was looking at first. The house was nothing but blackened rubble and ash at this point, it had been mostly wooden, and the drought had dried it to a crisp, making it perfect for fire to ravage it like a hellish beast. Wayne saw something in the wreckage finally, as blue light from the fire truck illuminated it for a moment and it finally hit Wayne what he'd been focusing on. A tiny, charred blackened hand in a claw shape, reaching out of the rubble like a horrific last silent plea for help. He knew now that when bodies burn whilst the person is alive, the arms reach up as the muscles contract, leaving them in an upturned beetle position, but back then, it felt like that little hand was reaching for him, needing help that had taken too long to arrive. Wayne's eyes had been unable to pull away from that little hand as it burned into his retinas and his mind. His brain couldn't process the poor little girl's final moments, hoping to all hell she'd been unconscious and hadn't had to experience the brutality of the flames and life itself in her final moments.