Chapter 3–Sunday, 4:15PM

“Woodstalk!” the chief shouted. “I want everyone in the briefing room! Five minutes. No! Make that three!”

“Yes, sir!” The rookie snapped to attention. “I’ll get them there, sir! Thank you for putting your confidence in me, sir!”

Herb rolled his eyes as he turned back to his desk. Woodstalk was the most irritating rookie he’d ever seen come out of the Academy...but he was loyal. He’d make a great chief someday. Maybe, if Herb didn’t stop these “moonlight stalkers” – what a corny name – that day would come soon.

What was he thinking?! No crime had ever gone unsolved on his watch. He wasn’t giving up. He was the chief and there was work to do. He grabbed the VBI folder, scanned the photo, storing it on the department’s network and strode toward the briefing room.

The room was all abuzz when Herb entered. It quieted quickly as he stepped behind the podium. The chief looked out at the cornucopia of vegetable officers assembled before him. Cucumbers, parsley, a few gourds, lettuce, cabbage, one string bean and a dozen carrots, two turnips. “Gentlemen,” he began.

“And lady!” came a loud cry from the back of the room.

Herb had never gotten used to women officers. “Sorry, Linda.”

He began again, “Ladies and gentlemen.”

“There’s only one of me,” the she celery returned.

“Will you let me speak? Please!” Herb was losing his patience.

“Go ahead, Chief.” Herb caught a few officers grinning, elbowing each other in the ribs. He chose to ignore them.

“Lady...and gentlemen,” he began again. “We have a lead in the chopping spree. Miss Stewinsky, the VBI operative whom I’m sure you all noticed enter our fair station, informed me that she and a team of agents have arrived in our jurisdiction to save the day.” Herb paused, holding up the evidence file Monica had given him. “She gave me a file,” he continued, “A file which contains a photo...”

A gasp interrupted his speech. The picture had slipped from the folder and fallen face up on the floor, right at Woodstalk’s feet. It was the rookie who’d gasped. “Those guys look just like the posters,” he said. The clamor was deafening as the rest jockeyed for a peek.

“Back to your seats!” Herb screamed. “This is a police briefing! You will maintain discipline and...” he looked at Woodstalk, “keep your mouths shut unless asked to speak.”

The group scurried back to their seats.

“Could I have the lights, please!” The room dimmed and the ceiling-mounted projector came to life. “These, my friends,” he said pointing to the image on the screen, “are our killers.”

“Killers?” The question came from the back of the room.

“Yes, Linda, killers,” Herb answered. “It seems these murders are the work of a bunch of...” Words failed him. A bunch of what? A bunch of monsters. A bunch of zombies.

The room remained silent, every eye locked on the four blurry figures projected before them.

Herb spoke quietly after what seemed an eternity. “These celery strike only on clear, moonlit nights, gentlemen.” Linda did not correct him. “This Wednesday night will be clear and moonlit.” He paused again. “We have work to do. We are not going to air this photo. We are not going to speak to the press. We are simply going to turn over every compost pile in the greater metropolitan area and find these guys...by Wednesday. We’ve got three days. Use standard stalking patterns. Take the old sketches with you and ask around. We know they’re accurate now. Woodstalk, you’re with me. Everyone else on the street. Now!”

The room cleared.