by A. L. Mengel
“I’m busy,” he said, without looking up.
There was silence for a few more minutes until the knock came again, this time somewhat louder and more insistent. Ned looked up, over towards the door, his eyebrows arched and his lips pursed. “Come in.” He quickly returned to his paperwork.
There was a petite, white haired woman standing in the doorway. As Ned looked up, noticing her, leaning on a small walking cane and looking somewhat forlorn and bedraggled from the heat, he sat back in his chair and gestured with an open hand. “Please, have a seat.”
Ned sighed as he watched the woman ease herself slowly in the chair across from his desk. She clearly was quite advanced in age. Most likely coming in to prepare her will, arrange her services. Might be alone. “How may I help you this morning?”
The woman sat back and appeared out of breath. Ned rose from his chair and grabbed a small paper cup, filled it from the water cooler, and brought it to the woman. She looked up at him and smiled.
Ned sat back on his desk and looked down at her. He examined her features more closely as she sipped from the paper cup. Her stark white hair was pulled back neatly, save the few solitary strands that wisped their way out from her head. He arched his eyebrows, and watched. And waited.
She closed her eyes as she finished the water. “I used to think I was near death.” Ned cocked his head to the side as she opened her eyes and looked up at him.
Ned leaned forward. “I don’t quite follow.”
“I know about the man who came through here yesterday,” she said. “His name was Stephen. I knew him quite well, actually.”
The look on Ned’s face warmed a bit. “I am quite sorry for your loss. Are you family? A friend? The services are scheduled for 10am tomorrow.”
She looked up at him again, making eye contact. “What I said when I came in here was that I used to think that I am near death.”
“And of Stephen?”
She sighed and looked out past him towards the windows.
“Yes, Stephen. He’s another one. But it was too late for him.”
Ned rose and walked around the desk, returned and took his chair. He sat for a moment and studied the woman, resting his chin in his hands. After a moment of silence, he spoke. “I don’t understand your comment, ma’am.”
“My name is Delia Arnette. I represent an organization called The Inspiriti. We aren’t very well known except in very discreet sects. I was recruiting Stephen to be a member.”
“And who are The Inspiriti?”
“They are an organization of those who are near death…those who simply cannot die. We are in place to ensure that they don’t.”
Ned smiled, but it was wane and soft. “I can assure you, ma’am, that you are attempting the impossible. If you weren’t, I would be out of a job.” He chuckled, and looked back down at the paperwork on his desk.
The woman straightened herself in her chair. “I expected such an answer. I just ask you a favor. May I see his body?”
Ned paused for a moment. “Why do you need to see his body?”
“I was a dear friend. It would please me very much. I won’t be able to attend the viewing tomorrow, and I would like to pay my last respects.”
Ned shifted in his seat and looked at the woman. She sat back in the chair, looking very small and frail. She stared back at him, her lips shut tightly, her eyes weathered and worn, her face just as tired. But he could tell that she was classy. But still, there was just something about her. And the body was ready in the viewing room. He supposed it couldn’t hurt.
“Yes, Delia, you can see him,” he said before he had a chance to think about it. “Follow me.”
*~*~*
Hernan Perez lay in a freezer in the Miami City Morgue.
His body was wrapped in a clear plastic bag; a brown clipboard lay on top of the bag just above his abdomen, and on the clipboard was a number of forms and legal documents. On his large toe was a yellow tag.
And inside the bag was Hernan.
He had recently arrived, courtesy of Detective Jensen, his Deputy and the Coroner just as any other body had arrived at the Morgue – in a black, windowless full-size van, and on a gurney, wrapped in a black plastic bag.
What was different about this arrival was that it was Hernan Perez. As his body was lifted from his bed at home, he could feel several sets of hands grab him roughly. But there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He could feel the warmth of the blood as it dripped from his body, and he had heard the drips fall to the pool of blood on the bed.
But he couldn’t open his eyes.
He felt the gurney below him – it was padded and soft. But the body bag was cold. Stark.
And then the zipper.
And then all he could do was listen.
Muffled voices. Laughter.
But he couldn’t make out much else. He could feel the rumble of the road. He could sense the breaks in the pavement on the freeway, he could hear the click-click the tires made when passing over each break. He felt the potholes as the suspension rattled.
But that was about it.
And then there was the cold.
The chill permeated the darkness as he lay, motionless, unable to warm himself, unable to move. He knew that he was not breathing, but being paralyzed and frozen, there was nothing he could do about it. He wanted to shiver; his senses were screaming but all he could do was feel.
And then his senses started to fade away…
…and all he could remember was the bright sunny day. The bright sunny day that was like any other bright sunny day in the Perez household. He remembered the mornings he woke early, long before Eva or Roberto, and tip toed down the stairs.
He would make himself an eye-opener.
He could still hear the clank of the ice cubes as he tossed them in a glass. He could feel the chill of the bottle as he fished it out of the freezer.
And he could still feel the heat in his throat as he took a first sip.
And after his eye-opener, he would start to scurry around the kitchen, grabbing pots and pans, cracking eggs and sizzling bacon.
But those were the good mornings in the Perez household. After Eva succumbed to her cancer, Roberto became distant and Hernan’s drinking got out of control.
And then Antoine came into the picture.
The last glimpse, before his eyes had closed to blackness, was Antoine’s face, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, and a smile on his face:
Welcome to my world, Hernan.
He must have blacked out for a bit, because it was a deeper cold was the next thing that hit him. It just got so cold. So utterly freezing. He sensed ice crystals developing on his eyelashes and hair, but there was nothing that he could do about it.
Until he heard the zipper again.
And then he opened his eyes.
The light was bright. Overly so. He couldn’t see, just blurs and orbs. Just a wall of white. And then a black figure appeared, as if looking down on him. “Wake up, Hernan.” The figure bent down closer. “Your vision will come back to you soon.”
Hernan slowly moved his head to the side. Very slowly. He groaned and closed his eyes again. “What…”
And then there were the bad mornings in the Perez household.
And then the zipper. He remembered that zipper.
The Zipper.
Remember me?
It’s what you heard when I was standing outside your bedroom door. Just outside the door as I pushed it open ever so slowly, but even so the door still creaked.
You still saw me through the crack as I looked in, through the crack in the door, and watched you. You still saw me looking at you. Watching you.
Hernan gasped awake and his eyes shot open. “What the?!”
The figure was standing above him in a dark hood.
There was no face. Just darkness.
Yet it spoke. “Rise, Hernan.” The voice was neutral; neither masculine nor feminine. “Rise out of your slumber.”
>
His vision started to return. He could make out the pastel green tiles that covered the walls. The linoleum flooring. The stainless steel cooler. Which felt like a cold coffin.
But it was just blackness inside the bag.
He remembered something. It wasn’t much. But the last thing that he remembered was…
…A sweet taste of hot blood…
…Dripping down my chest. Squeezing my insides. Warming my soul. But then…I didn’t remember you, did I? Oh yes, of course I did. I remember sucking your skin and tearing your neck to shreds. Welcome to my world. For what I remember, what I did, and what I will do will always be on your mind now.
Do you remember me Hernan? Do you remember what I did to you?
For now, it is time to rise.
It is time un-zip yourself.
Just like the zipper from so many years ago.
Go on and get going and get started. For if you don’t remember me, and if you don’t remember what I did to you, then you are useless anyway.
Hernan desperately tried to remember.
There was a face looking down at him. Blood dripping from his teeth. Smiling. “Welcome to my world, Hernan.”
But whose face was it?
And then there was the zipper.
There were too many times that he heard it, and when he did, he knew what would be following shortly. The click of the lock. The clank of the belt buckle as jeans fell to the floor. And then all he did was hide his face in the pillow, and wish everything were over.
The zipper came too many mornings, too many morning when he would bury his face into the pillow. He could still smell the fresh lines and sweet cotton as he heard heavy footsteps come closer and closer towards his bed.
“Wake up, Hernan.”
It was the gruff, commanding voice of Father.
Father, forgive me. Father, I do not know what I have done.
“Time for twenty licks, boy!”
Hernan shuddered in the pillow, as the air became hot his breathing was difficult. But he dared not turn around. The pillow became moist from his tears, and then he knew what was next.
“It’s time you started…behavin’.”
He felt the cool air as Father yanked the sheet down and tossed it on the floor. He could feel the breeze from the box fan in the window, and his sweat immediately started to dry.
And then the searing pain that assaulted his back was excruciating; had it not been for the penetration of the buckle into his skin, and the blood that dripped from the steel as he was whipped repeatedly, and the zipper.
That damn zipper.
Hernan knew.
It was too much and too often, that the beatings would come, and the belt would come off, and the blood would stain the sheets.
But it was Hernan’s zipper that was the problem.
“Never again, Hernan! Never again!”
And then Father left, put his belt back on, and left the room as quickly as he had come. The fan drone on. The pillows were now damp with Hernan’s tears, and stained with droplets of blood.
It was only after Father left the room, and the door closed, that Hernan would raise his head from the pillow and turn around. He examined his torn shirt and winced at the pain.
Large gashes ran the length of his back, dripping blood and staining the sheets. The same wounds from last time, and the time before.
But it was always a different reason.
And this time, it stung much more. He collapsed on the pillow, lay his head on his side, closed his eyes, and sighed.
*~*~*
But Hernan didn’t always understand the reasons behind the zipper. He just knew that it was something that he was expected to do. And then the act would be complete, his tears would stop flowing, and the pillow would dry.
He remembered those days far too vividly.
And it shaped him into the man he became.
After he lost Eva, and then his son Roberto, he didn’t remember much after that.
The drink took over.
But what he had turned into, as an adult, was a man with a very violent temper. There were several times that he had sent his wife to the hospital, and his son would not speak to him for days at a time.
But when Antoine tore his neck to shreds, everything changed.
So get up, Hernan.
It’s high time you rose back up, get out of that body bag. You have had enough time. It’s time to do what you need to do. You’re a lazy son-of-a-bitch. Get off your ass and start makin’ a livin’!
And then Hernan remembered his own father and the afternoons. Oh, the afternoons.
It’s time to start makin’ a livin’ you lazy sack of shit!
Too many mornings that muffled voice roused him from a deep sleep. And too many afternoons he would return home to anger and fear. To a father who slumped in the chair with a glass of scotch, nodding off, as Hernan tip-toed across the living room.
But father’s eyes always shot open. “Where have you been you lazy son-of-a-bitch?” He rose from his lounger and staggered, spilling the scotch and partially melted ice cubes on the carpet. He called out to the kitchen. “Nora! Get in here and clean this mess up!”
Hernan stood against the wall, across the room, and watched his father take great effort in standing upright. “Get over here! You’ve been gone all day boy!”
*~*~*
And then the vision stopped. And Hernan opened his eyes.
His eyelids fluttered a bit.
All he saw was blackness. He quickly discovered that there was no way to open a body bag from the inside. There was no “inner zipper”. He strained against the confinement, and searched his pockets, but found nothing to cut through the heavy duty material.
Use your strength.
Hernan stopped trying to move.
I have given you a gift, use it Hernan.
But Hernan did not know how to use the gift. He only remembered his life, his mortal life, his son, his wife, and Antoine. But he tore at the body bag anyway. He grabbed at the top of the bag, and ripped it in half.
Effortlessly.
And when he found himself in a small, rectangular refrigeration chamber, he flipped over so he was facing the door. And he punched it out so the small, square door fell onto the floor in a shower of steel and metal, clanking against the tile.
Most of the lights were off in the morgue.
Hernan looked outwards, at large expansive glass windows revealing a sea of desks cluttered with papers. A set of stainless steel doors were beyond the windows. It was time to leave and get out and get on with what he needed to do. So he hoisted himself out and onto the tile floor. He spilled out of the chamber and lie still on the floor for several minutes, catching his breath. And then a woman spoke.
“Hello Hernan, I have been waiting for you.”
He snapped his head up towards the voice.
It was a woman with red hair, dressed in a doctors white coat. She smiled and bent down closer to him. “Do you know who you are?”
CHAPTER TWO
I kill.
Everyday.
Perhaps not in the traditional sense.
Every day, I stare at a lifeless body beneath me, lying on the ground in a hapless mess, sometimes covered in blood and other times already cold and rigid and in the beginning stages of rigor mortis.
Sometimes the bodies I am standing over don’t even seem like human bodies anymore. Sometimes they are so mauled and mutilated and bloodied beyond recognition that I look down and see someone that looks like they could be someone familiar or perhaps someone that I do not know.
But I feel like a killer –
…and I brush the feelings of uncertainty off.
That damn voice.
I shake my head.
Mop my brow.
I look down at the body lying beneath where I stand, and a feeling of contentment passes over me. I reach into my right pocket and fumble with the pack of cigarettes and lighter; the sweet, intoxicating smell of the ci
garette smoke wafts through the still, humid summer air as I exhale slowly, close my eyes and concentrate on the hum of the cicadas.
The body was found lying in a thick of trees at the side of Dixie.
It was perhaps one of the worst messes I had come across in years. Totally drained and dried, like a grayish prune. There was a pool of blood beneath the corpse, but it had long since dried up by the time I had stood over the body.
“Ned,” a voice called from behind me. I slowly turned to face a short, balding middle aged man holding a steaming cup of coffee in his right hand and a manila folder in his left. “Here is the case file.” He held it out to me, casting a long shadow over the body in the bright afternoon sun.
“How can you drink that on such a hot day like this?” I asked him, grabbing the folder from his hand. I fumbled with the clasp as he continued: “They found him a couple hours ago. The offices are destroyed – I have never seen such a mess! The place looks like a bomb went off!”
“And Wilkes? How did he get here? This is miles away.”
“That remains a mystery,” he answered. “Because word is he died at the offices. Right on the sidewalk in front of the front door – in a steaming, fucking mess!”
“Martin, listen to me. Coral Gables is at least fifteen miles north of here.”
“Yes,” Martin replied. “And there is the same residue on the sidewalk on Ponce that there is here. His blood is there as well. And I have asked you repeatedly to stop calling me Martin.”
“I see,” I said, flicking my finished cigarette on the ground and stubbed it out with my foot. There wasn’t much in the file on Mr. Wilkes, and there shouldn’t be at this point anyway. Hell, we just discovered the body. And Mr. Wilkes was a fine, upstanding citizen. No priors. He was identified only by a visual, and it was only because the two teenagers who found him and had recognized him from his photos.
“Well, you have what you need then,” Martin said, waving and walking back to his cruiser. “I’m out of here. Check out that file. I kind of threw it together before I left, but it has some interesting information about this dead fellow here. Apparently he was well known in the Para psychological circuit.”