The Fire Triangle, A Zootopia Fanfiction -- Part One: Fuel - 104

Disclaimer: Zootopia stories, characters, settings, and properties belong to the Walt Disney Co. This story is written under Fair Use Copyright laws.

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The Fire Triangle—A Zootopia Fanfiction

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Part One:

Fuel

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Chapter 12 –The Best Laid Plans

(Continued...Pt. 5)

Luckily for Barrow, a polar-bear's vision is neither especially keen, nor particularly photo-sensitive; otherwise the lights in his eyes would have been a lot more painful. Even so, he was barely able to restrain himself from raising his paws to shield them. These were nobody's dime store flashlights; they seemed to be stabbing straight into his brain.

All the same, he didn't dare make a move; as a member of the ZPD, he knew what he'd do if he were on the other team and the animal in the cross-beams raised an arm.

And then two of the lights swung sideways, like the doors of a saloon, while the one directly in front of him (and the polar-bear known as 'One',) dropped downwards, to the floor.

For a moment, nothing was visible in the darkness, only vague shapes ...but there was no mistaking the pungent, sour-apple odor emanating from within the gloom. Their ambushers were members of a singular species.

Three of the shapes moved forward, coalescing into a trio of bristled faces—menacing faces with kettle chins, flat noses, and short, curling tusks. Their ears resembled moth-eaten aspen leaves, while the eyes were small and glistening. All three were decked out in tac-vests and urban camo—and all three were toting shotguns. The leader was huge for a wild boar, almost the same size as One. He wore an MG belt for a sash and... And what was that umbrella-stand-thing slung over his back? Could it possibly be what Barrow thought it was?

With a snuffling snort, the big boar flashed a wicked grin, reaching up to pat One on the cheek in a gesture of mock affection.

"That shrimp you Goombears work for might be able to fool the ZPD inta thinkin' you was gonna hit one of the pizzerias." He sound deeply amused with himself, "but OUR Boss ain't so easy..."

Something clattered onto the floor, a perforated metal cylinder. Barrow knew what it was, and also that One had tossed it.

And this time, he DID shield his eyes—just as the flash-bang grenade detonated, a sound and a fury like hundred strings of firecrackers, all going off at once.

Someone pulled at his arm; he prayed it wasn't a Razorback and opened his eyes. It was One and he was screaming something...Barrow couldn't hear, but he could make out the words from the other bear's lip movements. "COME ON, THIS WAY!"

He bolted after the lead bear, having no idea where they were going. Wait, One was throwing open a door; where did it go? Never mind, follow the leader, quick!

Barrow charged through the opening, slamming the door behind him. Dangit, where was the lock? Wait, there...a sliding bolt; throw it, hurry!

He slapped the bolt home with the heel of his paw and turned to One...and that was when he saw where they were. He felt his mouth begin to pull back into a snarl, but then a vice-like grip fastened around his muzzle and the other bear put a finger to his lips.

On the opposite side of the door, the pigs' capo, whose name was Vinnie Truffalini was brushing himself off and becoming increasingly irritated with Bobby Mudd. Like always whenever things didn't go hunky-dory, Bobby couldn't stop running his mouth.

"We shoulda hit 'em as soon as they came through the door, but nooooo, you hadda play your stupid talking ga..."

"SHADDUP!" Vinnie squealed, wheeling on Bobby. The other pig did, but Truffalini saw his hoof moving towards the trademark bandolier across his chest. His face darkened and his voice lowered to a menacing rumble.

"If that hoof touches any one of them knives, you ain't gettin' it back, paisan."

"Wrap up, Bob; now's not the time. eh!" another pig grunted, in a broad, South Liondon accent. It was Benedicto 'Benny' Sybono, the only warthog in the group.

Bobby grunted back and stalked away, standing at the far side of the room with his arms crossed and his fingers drumming in the crook of an elbow.

Vinnie gave him a snort and a short, tight nod, and then strolled casually over to the locked door, looking it up and down for a second as if contemplating a purchase. Once again, he had a big wide grin on his face. And now he leaned in close, putting his ear against the partition, and then—using only his fingertips—rapped ever-so-lightly, as if not wanting to disturb the animals on the other side.

"Hellloooo?" he said, speaking in a low singsong. "Guess what Goombears? That ain't the way out, it's only the baaaaathroom!" He stepped back from the door with his hooves on his hips, at last becoming serious.

"You got nowhere to run, so you might as well come outta there. We ain't gonna hurt yas; we just need yas to take a message back to your boss."

On the other side of the door, Barrow wasn't listening. In the first place, it was one of the oldest routines in the mob repertoire, promising someone they won't be hurt...right before you ice them.

In the second place, he was much more interested in what One was saying into his two-way at the moment.

"Red-Fire One, Red-Fire One. Mayday! Mayday! Do you copy? Over..."

Seth Whitepaugh's voice came back immediately.

"Op One, this is Redfire. Copy five by five, what is your status? Over..."

One glanced at the door for a second.

"They were waiting for us, sir...at least six Razorbacks, probably more. We're currently trapped in a back room with no way out." Barrow saw his throat working, and then he said, "No time for backup, sir. I..." he swallowed again, "Request permission to activate, over..."

Barrow tensed at these words, expecting the other bear to be answered only with static silence.

Instead Whitepaugh came back immediately.

"Permission granted, but you are not to vacate the premises until you have completed your mission. Acknowledge please...over."

Barrow could tell that the other bear didn't like this one bit, (neither did he,) but what other choice did he have; what other choice did either of them have? The only thing standing between them and a pack of angry Razorbacks was a door that looked about as substantial as a politician's promise.

"Acknowledged, sir," One answered him. "We will complete the mission, over."

"Very good," the wolverine replied. "Brace yourselves and stand clear of the walls; we will activate you by remote."

"Stand clear of the walls?" Barrow wondered tetchily, "In THIS cubbyhole. How the heck are we...?"

His thoughts jammed to a halt as the first rush hit him.

On the other side of the door, Vinnie's patience was rapidly spiraling down the drain.

"Awrite Goombears, you had your chance." He planted himself in front of the bathroom door and raised a hoof, signaling for the pigs in his crew to take up positions on either side of him.

When they were all in place he unslung his weapon and raised his voice.

"You got till the count a' three to come outta there, punks...or else we come in blasting. One...two..."

That was as far as he got; the door exploded off its hinges, smashing into the boar-pig and propelling him halfway across the room...into a display table that promptly collapsed on top of him. It reminded Benny Sybono of a fly being swatted.

Then...he heard the breathing, deep and chesty, like the bellows of a steel furnace.

Benny turned, and saw...something emerging through the mangled doorway.

Then it looked at him and snarled, burning, almost incandescent eyes, wet, glistening fangs and a deep guttural sound that no animal now living could possibly make.

"Surprise...SURPRISE!"

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At that moment, a mini-van emblazoned with the store's logo was easing up to the curb out front.

"I really don't get it; why do you have to come in so early on a SUNDAY?"

The big sow in the passenger seat laced her arms and kicked up her chin; a piglet who doesn't want to go to bed—and you can't make me either.

Franklin 'Frank' Tichor only sighed and grunted wearily. He'd stopped counting at six the number of times Marie had already asked him that question. Even so, he dutifully responded to his wife's inquiry.

"I already told you," he said, pointing into the back of the van, "I need to get this new store display put up before we open...and remember what happened last time?"

Last time, he'd waited until a half hour before he opened to start putting his new display together—and ended up instead with a piece of modern sculpture. (That was also why he'd brought Marie along; she could help him lug the cartons inside and pass him the tools as he needed them.)

He got out and fished in a pocket for some change. His wife looked at him reproachfully but said nothing. It didn't matter; Franklin knew what she was thinking. "Why don't you park in the loading zone? You won't have to PAY if you'd park there."

"Because I need to bring it in through the front and this is a lot closer." Wisely, he kept that to himself.

Marie helped him load the first set of boxes onto a dolly, and then followed him to the store's front entrance.

"Get the door, hon?" he said, not bothering to ask if she had her card key; by now, he knew...

Something slammed into the window-shutter on his left, bowing it outward like a sail catching the wind. He heard the crackle of breaking glass and then groan and a sound like a dumpster tipping over. For a second, he was too bewildered to...

"PLOOM!" Now he heard the door glass shattering, saw the shutter punch outward, as if struck dead-center by an iron fist. What the heck was that weird pattern etched into the metal? It looked like an ink-blot or maybe...

"Franklin, get DOWN." Marie screamed, and he did...just as three more reports came from inside the store.

"Bop-Bop-Bop!"

He never saw where the first one went, but the second and third shots punched a pair of neat holes in the doorway—right where his head had been a second ago.

Frank Tichor flattened himself on the sidewalk, screaming and squealing his lungs out, (and fully justifying the derisive sobriquet his eldest boy had bestowed on him, Fran-Tic.)

He heard the roar of another gun blast, but saw no signs of impact...and then came another type of roar, raw, savage, and animalistic...like nothing he'd ever heard before or had ever wanted to hear.

He clasped his hooves over his ears and screamed even louder. (Three feet away, Marie was trying to get her phone out.)

Something smacked into a wall inside the store, a small object by the sound of it. It was followed by the noise of something much larger being pitched through the glass door of a cooler, (or so Franklin guessed.) That was followed by the scream/squeal of another pig. In spite of Franklin's terror, his curiosity was piqued. Who on earth could that...?

Another crash came from inside the store, the loudest one yet, another gunshot, another object hitting the wall...and then the sound of footsteps beating a fast retreat towards the rear of the shop, followed by much heavier footfalls. There was another squeal, a little fainter than before, but not from a pig; those hinges on the back door he'd been meaning to get oiled. It was followed by a fast clanking noise...and the sound of fists hammering on metal. Someone must have thrown and locked the deadbolt.

He heard an engine cranking in the alley behind the shop, a big mill of some kind...and then more squealing, tires this time. The bitter smell of burning rubber followed, detectable even at this distance—and then the thud of wheels hitting a speed bump as the vehicle, whatever it was, went flying out of the alley and into the street.

Frank Tichor went rigid with fear, waiting for the car to come skidding around the corner. Would they try to run him down?

But the sound only faded in the opposite direction; he heard more jouncing, more bouncing, the engine still racing as the noise became fainter and fainter. And then it faded into silence and was gone...leaving behind only the sound of Marie squealing into her cell-phone.

"Darn you, just SEND someone. Didn't you hear me? They had GUNS...!"

In spite of his fear, or perhaps because of it, Franklin pictured in his mind's eye a 9-1-1 dispatcher, trying to get his wife to calm down, (and good luck with that. If HE was easily panicked, Marie was just as easily triggered; it ran in her family.)

He heard movement from inside the shop, or...had he? It could just be something falling over. No, that was definitely a footfall...and another.

"Honey," he whispered through gritted teeth, "Honey, keep it down... I think someone's still in there."

Marie didn't hear him, too wrapped up in her emergency call to be aware of anything else. "I don't KNOW" she repeated, "just get here!"

On the other side of the door, the noise abruptly ceased; for a second, Franklin allowed himself to hope that they were gone, but then he heard more footfalls, big and heavy...moving in the direction of the back door. He allowed himself the trace of a grim smile. If the rear exit was padlocked, those animals in his shop weren't going anywhere; secured that way, the back door couldn't be opened from the inside...and it was a cinch nobody was getting those warped front shutters to work.

He had smiled too soon; at once there came a shriek of rending metal that made him want to cram his hooves deep into his ears, a noise like a giant rake on a giant chalkboard. It was followed by a flat metallic sound, and several seconds of silence.

And then he heard another engine cranking to life; deeper, much deeper than the first and also a lot throatier; a diesel this time.

It was coming from the loading zone around the corner.

He heard the vehicle begin to move, and with shock of horror, realized that this time, it was heading towards him. He looked around searching desperately for a place to hide...but the vehicle was already slewing around the corner. What the...? A MINKS van! And who was that driving? It looked like a... Noooo, that couldn't be right...

But then the armored car shot past him, and Franklin saw that the rear door was standing nearly halfway open. A figure appeared in the breach and tried to pull it closed. Instead, it flew upwards, and now there was no denying what his eyes were telling him...not with his wife there to confirm it.

"I SEE YOU, GOOMBEAR!" she squealed, nearly loud enough to muffle the noise of the armored truck's engine, "You're toast, you hear me? When my...!"

She had more to say, a lot more, but at that instant, the van's rear door finally slammed shut—and another sound became audible; a low hiss, followed by what sounded like corn popping—corn the size of golf balls.

It was coming from behind the two pigs, from somewhere inside the shop.

Franklin turned and saw fingers of dark-grey smoke, spiraling upwards through the holes in the shutters, and also a stark, white brilliance, visible through every nook and cranny in the damaged shopfront.

He screamed and rushed to the doorway. Behind him, Marie was also screaming. "Franklin, NO!"

The frantic pig didn't hear her; without thinking he grabbed for the door handle...and pulled back at once with an even louder scream; this time one of pain.

Nursing his injured hoof, he stumbled backwards from the door, dropping to his knees, and then folding over with his forehead touching the sidewalk; a peasant, kowtowing before a lord.

"No..." he sobbed, "No."

He felt a pair of arms enfold him, heard Marie's voice, not a soothing reassurance but a bitter oath.

"He'll pay for this Franklin; that dirty little shrew is going to PAY for this—big time!"

She grabbed her phone again and punched in the three magic numbers. This time the reaction was much more vigorous than before; as soon as she heard the word, 'arson', the 9-1-1 dispatcher was all over it. Ten seconds later, the call went out on the ZPD police band.

"All units, all units; Code Whitefire, Whitefire, Whitefire...I say again..."

A minute later, and only a few short blocks away, Nick Wilde was sprinting full tilt for Old Reliable, which stood idling at the curb with Judy at the helm, grille and dash-lights flashing; (no point in concealing their identities now.) She had the passenger door open and waiting for him, and if he knew this bunny, the wheel-boot was already stowed in the trunk again.

"Nick, MOVE!" she shouted, a cry that was almost a scream.

"I'm coming as fast as I can," he called back, wondering what the heck had gotten into her? Yes, he'd heard the radio-call and yes, they were the closest unit to the fire—he could already smell the smoke—but still...

"NICK!"

"All right, I'm here," he shouted, literally throwing himself into the passenger seat, "Now, what the heck...?"

"Close the door, dumb fox!"

Nick did, and was instantly pitched backwards and sideways as the cruiser shot away from the curb. Judy hadn't even given him time to put on his seatbelt.

"Carrots, what are you, cra...?"

"Hit the siren, Nick!"

He did, and at once the air was filled with the familiar, shrill, wail, wow, and whoop.

"All right," he said, clicking the harness and turning in his seat, "now would you please...?"

His words halted in their tracks when he saw her face; brows knotted, ears back, the mouth pulled into a jittery seismograph line...and there was no mistaking the dark streaks, leaking backwards from the corner of her eye.

"Shut up and let me drive," she said, in a voice as tight as a bowstring

He prudently did just that.

Even at regular speed, it would have taken only a few minutes to get there; at lights-and-siren velocity, it was blink-and-you-miss-your-destination.

When they came around the final corner, Nick was surprised find the street filled with flash red-and-blues, and a cordon set up at either end of it. What, now? He'd thought THEY were the unit closest to...oh riiiiight, the animals here were from the Zootopia Fire Department, not the ZPD. Kudos to them, he thought, for responding so swiftly; three trucks already on site and at least one hose on the fire. Maybe this time...

His thoughts were cut off as the cruiser thumped to a halt, pitching him forward again. On his left, he heard Judy gasp and then sob.

"Car-ROTS!" he barked, spinning in his seat...but then it finally dawned on him. In fact...why hadn't he seen it from the beginning?

"You...You know this place?" he asked her, tentatively, as if grasping for a wire that might or might not be live.

She swallowed and nodded tightly.

"F-Flora and Fauna Flower Shop."

Okay, that was a name he recognized.

"The place where you busted Duke Weaselton that first time?" he asked, (not entirely accurate but close enough.)

Judy only nodded again...and at last the red fox understood; it's every cop's worst nightmare—being called to the scene of a crime that turns out to hit close to home.

But if he understood that, he also understood something else.

"All right Carrots," he told her, as gently as he could—and also as firmly, "I know that's rough, but we've still got a job to do."

His words had the desired effect. Judy straightened up in her seat and brushed a paw across her face.

"Right Nick," she said, and eased the cruiser forward.

The fire-scene's entrance was attended by a gerenuk and a zebu, first-year rookies by the look of them. Seeing the police vehicle approaching, the gerenuk raised a hoof. Judy eased to a rolling stop and lowered her window. At once the air inside the cruiser became ten degrees warmer. That was no minor blaze out there.

"Mornin', officers." the gerenuk greeted them amiably, leaning elbows on the windowsill. As far as he seemed to be concerned, this might have been a casual meeting over coffee and doughnuts.

Yep...rookie.

"Morning," Judy answered, hiding her impatience, "Has anyone else from the ZPD arrived yet?"

"Nossir, you're first on the scene," the slender antelope replied, and then pointed off to the left. "You'll want to see Captain Lowe first; he's over there by the first pumper." He seemed to have sensed that this bunny-cop wasn't in the mood for conversation. Perhaps, Nick reflected, he wasn't quite the newbie after all.

Or...was it his imagination, or had the gerenuk stiffened slightly when his gaze had fallen upon the other occupant of the police cruiser? No time to contemplate, because they were already being waved through.

According to the ZPD's rules of procedure, the first officer on any crime scene is the Officer-In-Charge until someone of higher rank shows up. In other words, this was his and Judy's show, at least for now.

They found the animal they were looking for almost immediately, deep in conversation with a pronghorn antelope. He was hard to miss, a big animal with CPT. LOWE stenciled in big, black letters across the back of his off-yellow fire-coat. At first glance, he (she) appeared to be a lioness. When the fox got closer, he saw that the fire captain was actually a male lion—sans mane. A few steps more and Nick realized that it hadn't been shorn off voluntarily. Where most of the fire-captain's head-fur should have been, an ugly swatch of scar tissue had taken up residence. His estimation of the big cat went up immediately; here was a firefighter who'd clearly paid his dues.

Then the pronghorn Lowe had been talking to waved and pointed in their direction.

"ZPD's here Captain," he said, and the lion turned quickly around. He had a slight paunch and some graying around his muzzle but was otherwise remarkably fit. Before speaking to the new arrivals, he issued a quick flurry of orders to his subordinate.

"When ladder three gets here, I want them over there in front of that movie theater; that'll put them at least partly upwind of the fire. Meanwhile, I want two more hoses on those window and door shutters; if we lose them, we're going to get a flashover. And that reminds me, tell Jeffords I want him and his crew to stay out of that alleyway out back."

"Done and done," the antelope nodded, and hightailed off at maximum speed.

Captain Lowe watched him go and then finally spoke to Nick and Judy.

"Well, you got here quick enough," he said offering a paw to each of them, and for the first time, Nick noticed that he had a slight rasp in his voice. Another souvenir, the red fox guessed, of the flames that had seared off his mane.

"I could say the same about you guys," Judy answered as she shook with him.

"You can thank your Chief Bogo for that one," the lion replied, waving an airy paw, "he was SO right to have Chief Packer put us on alert last night." He blew a short puff air and then shook his head, grimly, "Even so, we'll be lucky if we can save even a third of that shop. This is one seriously intense blaze; whoever set it was a first-class professional."

Nick turned to look at Judy and saw her looking back at him. Then they both looked at the fire captain.

"You're...sure it was arson?" the doe bunny asked, in the hesitant voice of someone posing what they know is dumb question—but it needs to be asked just the same.

The lion only nodded, grimly.

"No doubt about it; this time there's a witness."

Nick felt his ears stand up and saw Judy's do the same. All right, THAT was a new development.

"The owner and his wife came early to put up a new store display." The mane-less lion was explaining, "They were here, on site when the fire started; even got a look at the perps as they were fleeing the scene."

"Where are they?" Judy asked immediately.

Lowe pointed towards an EMT van, parked just outside the circle of fire trucks. "Over there. You won't get much out of the husband; he's pretty much a hot mess right now. The wife's talking though."

Nick winced and felt a wry expression unzip itself along his muzzle. He knew that tone of voice; the wife was 'talking' as in, they couldn't get her to shut up.

But then Lowe dropped an even bigger bombshell.

"We think we have one of the perps, too...found him in the alleyway, out back of the store."

"Can we talk to him?" Now it was Nick's turn to ask an impulsive question.

The fire captain chewed at his chops before answering. "You can try, but he's in pretty nasty shape; looks like he ran through a mulching machine trying to get out of that place." He shrugged, "or that's what my guys said; he was barely conscious when they found him."

"Well, we should at least make the attempt," Judy said, "Nick, you go try and talk to him, while I go see the owner."

"Right," the fox answered, and then turned and prepared to head off. It was an old, established rule of their partnership; as a former street operator, Nick was the more adept of the two at interviewing suspects, while Judy's forte was talking to victims, (and besides, in this case she knew the victim—or at least, she'd met him.)

"Look for the ambulance around the side, by the alleyway." Captain Lowe said to Nick, pointing. "They're working on him over there. But stay away from that alley, and for God's sake don't go in there." He corrected the aim of his finger. "If those shutters fail, that fire's going to flash—and it'll go right through that place."

"I'll keep my distance," the fox replied, meaning it. He and Judy had already used up their close-call-in-an-alley quota for this month.

He found the injured animal on a gurney, being attended to by a pair of mule deer, buck and doe, while a pangolin firefighter rode shotgun; the name on his coat read. 'Kwame'.

Then the deer-doe tapped him on the shoulder.

"ZPD's here."

The pangolin nodded and turned quickly; Nick suspected he'd been posted here for just that purpose. .

"Ah, good," he nodded, his voice thick with the accent of West Afurica, and then turned and offered a paw to Nick. "Adam Kwame."

"Nick Wilde," the fox replied, taking it, and then angling his chin in the direction of the animal on the gurney he asked, "So what's the scoop?" He wanted dearly to talk to the suspect now, but first things first; he had protocols to observe.

Kwame waved in the direction of animal on the gurney.

"Found him lying next to de back door...what's left of it. He got lots of lacerations and contusions; a broken rib, and probably concussion, but nuttin' life threatenin', far as EMTs can tell." A corner of his mouth twisted upwards, "Lucky for him, he hard-headed species."

Nick nodded and asked the obvious cop-question.

"Has he said anything?"

"Nothin' makes any sense," the pangolin answered with an immediate shrug; he had obviously been expecting this inquiry. "He been and out of it ever since we found him, babblin' one moment, almost in coma de nex'."

That was good for a small, frustrated growl on the fox's part; trying to question this animal would be a fool's errand in all but name.

Nonetheless, he had to give it a try.

"Can I speak to him?"

By way of response, Kwame deferred to the pair of EMT's who answered with a tentative nod.

"Just don't try to push him," the deer-buck cautioned.

"I won't," Nick assured him...but then halfway to the gurney, he stopped in his tracks. What the fresh heck...?

"What is it?" Kwame asked, in a puzzled voice.

For a moment, the fox said nothing, and then turned slowly back around.

"This isn't one of the arsonists," he answered, flatly. "I don't know what he's doing here, but he's not one of the animals who set that fire; at least," he hastily qualified his statement, "not if the Tundratown mob was behind it."

"Wha...why do you say that?" the doe-deer queried with her ears working back and forth.

Nick pointed at the prostrate figure on the gurney.

"Because there is no way," he declared firmly, "No...stinking...WAY that Mr. Big would ever let a warthog into his outfit."

The other three animals all stared for a moment, and then looked at each other, and then at Nick.

"Well then, who...?" Kwame finally asked.

"No idea," the red fox answered, cutting him off, "but if you'll give me some space here, maybe I can find out."

He pushed forward, leaning over the injured pig...and noticed something at once. There were something like a thousand cuts, and a broken tusk—but no burns that he could see; none of this animal's injuries had been acquired in the structure fire.

These thoughts were quickly brought up short as Nick became aware of something else—something that made his nose wrinkle and his bile begin to rise; even for a warthog, this animal's body-odor was particularly rank, spoiled onions and sulfur fumes. (There were times when being a species with a keen sense of smell could be a curse as well as a blessing.)

But wait a minute...Nick knew that odor, but from where? It was nothing he recalled so much as he felt; it was something...primitive, almost ancestral.

And then, like a hammer to the head, it came to him; it was a smell every predator knows, deep in the back of their mind, the dark stench of stress sweat.

...The smell of fear.

But never before had Nick encountered an animal that literally reeked of it, (except once, an instance that he couldn't now recall.) It was as if the warthog had been drenched in the stuff. Whatever he'd encountered inside of that flower shop, it hadn't just scared him; it had terrorized him.

Pulling out his cell-phone, Nick switched it over to the camera function, and shot a quick flurry of images of the warthog. Putting it away, he swallowed down his gorge and leaned over the gurney once more.

"Hey buddy," he said to the warthog, as delicately as he could, while at the same time trying not to gag, "how're you doing?"

The pig only looked at him with glassy, vacuous eyes.

"I know you've had a long day," Nick went on, now thoroughly convinced that he was wasting his time, "But can you tell me anything about what ha..."

That was as far as he got before a pair of hooves shot upwards, seizing him by the collar in a death-grip.

"Please!" the warthog begged, wild eyes and foam-flecked mouth, his voice the squeal of a piglet, crying for its mother. "Help me...help me ...don't let 'em 'urt me, eh?...please....keep 'em away!"

"What...who?" Nick asked, somehow resisting the urge to pull away.

"N-N-Nannies." the hapless pig all but whimpered.

Nick shook his head as if to clear it. Did he really just hear...?

"What, a goat did this to you?"

In response, the warthog's voice rose to a terrified squeal—and from there to a siren's wail.

"Nanny! NANIEEEEE!"

Nick barely heard a thing; at that instant, it all came back to him, where he'd smelled this before, where he'd heard this before—where he'd SEEN this before.

But no...that couldn't be...

The deer-buck moved in with a syringe in his hoof. A quick jab, and the pig's eyes rolled upwards, and he fell back onto gurney, out for the count.

"I-I-I think that's enough," the doe-deer informed Nick...harshly, as if he'd been trying to interview the patient against her wishes.

The fox was actually inclined to agree somewhat ...but then he noticed something else. Was that...?

"Just one more thing," he said, pointing. "Can you peel back his shirt there? No, not there; on the other side, where it covers his right shoulder."

The two deer gave him a vexed look, but then the buck reached out with a gloved hoof and drew back the warthog's shirt from where Nick had indicated.

...And gasped.

"Wha...? What the heck is that?"

Needled into the bare skin of the Afurican pig's shoulder was a crude emblem, rendered in dull, greenish-black (the same color as the ink favored by correctional facility print-shops.)

It showed a circle containing a pair of straight razors with the blades crossed. They were flanked on either side by a pair of curling tusks, with two smaller tusks jutting upwards from below. The text beneath, rendered in Latin, read,, "Unam Irreverentia et Contemptum Omniun."

"What's thet mean then?" asked Kwame, who had just appeared behind the fox.

"'Disrespect one, and you disrespect us all,'" Nick translated for the pangolin. He didn't speak the language, but he knew that slogan...knew it very well.

"But what IS that thing?" the deer-buck asked again.

"That," Nick answered drily, pointing at the design, "is the mark of the Razorbacks."

At the mention of this name, the mule-deer buck drew back from the gurney with a horrified expression on his face. (Kwame and the doe merely looked puzzled.)

...Almost as puzzled as Nick Wilde felt; what the heck was a member of the Sahara Square Strongarm squad doing here?

Even as the red fox posed the question to himself, an answer was forming in the back of his mind. Was that possible? It was something like a thousand-to-one longshot—and yet, it would explain almost everything.

He turned and looked up the street, towards the front of the store. Maybe Carrots was getting some answers.

Yes, but not quite the answers the red fox wanted; no sooner had they parted company than more ZPD officers had begun to arrive on the scene. One of these was Sergeant Higgins...who outranked them both, and thereby became the new, nominal OIC, (at least until someone with even higher authority showed up.)

At the moment, Judy was waiting on the periphery while the hippo-cop talked to Captain Lowe...and trying not to thump her foot in frustration. Rank or no rank, Higgins was little more than Precinct-1's unofficial majordomo; even Clawhauser stood above him in importance.

"Whoever set this fire had to have some serious know-how," Lowe was explaining, expanding upon what he'd said to her and Nick earlier, "A flower-shop is a naturally cool and damp environment. You've got sprinklers, misting systems; refrigerated cabinets. My guess is they used a sodium-infused accelerant; sodium doesn't play nice with water."

"What about the inferno device?" Higgins asked...and Judy winced. The correct term was infernal device.

The fire captain just shrugged. "Until we find the point of origin, your guess is as good as mine. Whatever it was though, it had to be pretty darn sophisticated—like I said."

"I better leave that for the arson squad, then," Higgins replied, looking for a graceful exit. (At least he seemed to understand that he was out of his depth.) He found his escape hatch in Judy Hopps, whom he summoned with a bent finger.

"Hopps, did I hear correctly, you know the victims here?"

"I wouldn't say I know them, sir," the doe bunny answered, wondering how he, of all animals, could be aware of that fact, "But I've met them, at least the husband; when I busted Duke Weaselton with those Nighthowler bulbs, this was the store he'd been trying to rob." She pointed in the direction of the burning flower-shop.

"Oh yes...that," the hippo responded, with a sardonic smile. "That stupid weasel's lucky HE didn't get hit with one of those savage-predator pellets."

After the arrest of Dawn Bellwether, it had come out that Weaselton had actually been sent to the Flora and Fauna Flower Shop to BUY the Nighthowler bulbs... as he would have, had he not been accosted by an angry badger on his way to the store—his bookie, who had promptly relieved him of every penny he had.

And so the Dukester had been left with no alternative but to try and steal the bulbs instead, (and how had that worked out?)

"Well that's close enough Hopps," Higgins went on, "I want you to be the first to go and talk to them. Nothing specific, just the basics; leave the detailed questions for the Arson Squad."

"Yes, sir." Judy nodded, hiding her irritation at being instructed to do what she'd been planning to do anyway. But then Higgins turned and pointed, waving a finger from side to side like a divining rod.

"Swinton, where's Swinton? Swinton, come here; I want you to go with Hopps."

At once the doe-bunny felt her ire beginning to cool. Okay, THAT made sense. When talking to a crime victim, it was always a good idea to have a member of their species present.

Maybe Higgins wasn't as far in over his head as she'd thought.