This is one of my stories from Suppose: Drabbles, Flash Fiction, and Short Stories.

Have you ever been stopped by a police officer for a moving-traffic violation? Quentin hasn’t — and he hopes the cops won’t pop his trunk.

—

Flashing lights. The yelp of a siren. Motorists craning their necks.

Quentin Parsons frowned and squinted at the police car in the rearview mirror as he slowed to a stop. He rolled down the window and waited with white-knuckled fists on the steering wheel. “What’s the problem, officer?”

The cop looked young, probably fresh out of training, and although her square jaw emoted determination, the softness of her Bambi eyes and a nervous tug at an earlobe spoiled the resolute impression. She spoke with a tremor in her voice. “Driver’s license and registration, please.”

“But officer, I —”

“Now!” She kept her hand on her holster while he rifled through the papers in the glove compartment.

He loosened his tie and sized her up as he perused her name tag. “Here, Officer Kenise. I think you’ll find everything in order.”

She paused to listen to her personal radio. Her face paled, and she stuffed his documentation into a pocket. “Out of the car and down on the ground.”

“But —”

“NOW!”

No matter how righteous a person’s case, you don’t argue with a loaded gun. Quentin’s face greeted the pavement with a haste he hadn’t mustered since his last college-football touchdown. Even as he tried not to wreck his well-worn navy suit, he suspected that both knees would now betray their encounter with the asphalt.

Officer Kenise called for backup.

Squad cars appeared from both directions and squealed to a stop. Police personnel piled out. Three hulks thudded closer, hands on their weapons, and conferred with Kenise.

The sound of honking horns filled the afternoon air, and the stench of burnt rubber wafted over from one of the police cars. Quentin hoped they wouldn’t pop his trunk.

They did.

Blood-stained sheets. Shovel. Vials containing a viscous, red liquid.

“You’re under arrest.” Kenise handcuffed him and read him his rights.

“But I can explain.”

“Explain it to the judge.”

“I was on my way to —”

“No matter where you were going, now you’re on your way to lockup.”

—•—

Quentin spent two hours sharing a holding cell with a pair of cockroaches. Seconds seemed like days as the pressure in his bladder increased. But he couldn’t force himself to use the dirty-looking toilet in plain view of anyone who happened to walk by.

Finally, Officer Kenise returned. She forced her face into an awkward smile. “Mr. Parsons, your paperwork checks out. I’ve been ordered to apologize. Something about keeping you happy so you don’t sue us for false arrest.”

She scratched her chin. “But I’d like to explain why I arrested you. You matched the description of someone who’s wanted for murder, and the evidence in your trunk certainly seemed incriminating at first. Why were you carrying vials of cranberry juice, and sheets stained with pigs’ blood?”

Quentin shrugged. “As I attempted to tell you, I was on my way to a wedding. The bride and groom are into this zombie-apocalypse thing, and they have a reception arranged for after the service. The stuff in my trunk was for props.”

Kenise laughed. “That explains it. And I suppose it’s going to be a dead reception full of stiffs, with people dying to get in.”

He grinned. “Funny lady.”

Her smile disappeared. “Sarge practically chewed me a new …” Her face reddened.

“Don’t worry about me suing the police department. But if I were you, I would worry about what the Chief might do when your sergeant fills him in on the details.”

“He’ll be in a good mood, because his son got married this afternoon.”

Quentin smirked. “I don’t think so. I’m the minister.”

—

You’ll find more short fiction like this in Suppose: Drabbles, Flash Fiction, and Short Stories.

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