by Unknown
“I think Thicke was playing with his bodies,” I said loudly, “and when his games backfired on him he called you guys to cover his ass for the missing John Does and then me to clean up the mess.”
Hendricks just looked confused and disgusted.
I leaned so I could see Thicke. “That sound about right, Henry?”
The mortician just dropped his head and whimpered.
I left the room. I didn’t need to see anymore. Hendricks followed, quickly this time. The seasoned old cop was spooked but good.
“What’s this mess you’re supposed to clean up, McDonald?” Hendricks barked and then added, “And where’s my cash?”
I gave him half what I owed him. I told him he’d get the other half when we were finished with the job.
“Finished?” he whined. “I’ll drag Doc Sickfuck in and we’re done. What’s to finish?”
I shoved Thicke aside and reached down for the large drain grate in the floor. It weighed twenty, maybe thirty pounds. I lifted it, threw it aside and stood facing the cop.
“We gotta go down there and find whatever he made and… deal with it,” I said.
Hendricks looked down into the sewer like a kid who just dropped his ice-cream cone.
I knew how he felt. It seemed like every other case I took on wound up with me slopping around in the fucking sewers. I thought about calling in the ghouls and letting them handle the search, but in the end I’d be the one to have to get my hands dirty, so fuck it, I figured.
I climbed down first. The hole was just big enough for me to slide through. That fat bastard Hendricks had a slightly harder time. I had to stand on the bottom rung of the ladder and pull on his leg to pop his belly through the slot.
I had a penlight on my keychain. I scanned around the tunnel as Hendricks bitched and complained about his ugly-ass suit getting blood on it.
There was blood on the walls, not much but enough to tell me we were on the right track. We were at a dead end so there was only one way to go. I led. Hendricks followed, bitching every chance he got.
About a hundred yards in we came to an intersection. We could go forward, left or right. There wasn’t any blood so it was a toss-up. I decided we should split up. Hendricks wasn’t keen on the idea, so I gave him the other half of the cash I promised him. He took it, agreeing to go right while I went forward.
As soon as we were separated, I popped a couple more pills and lit a smoke. If I was going to be sloshing through shit, I might as well have a decent buzz.
It was dark, and the smell was a cross between urine and vomit, with rotten meat thrown in for that extra something special.
I used the light from the penlight and my smoke to guide the way, and another hundred yards in I began to wonder if there was anything to find.
Just because Thicke played with the dead didn’t mean he got results. For all I knew he’d mutilated the bodies in the embalming room and made it look sloppy to throw me off.
Just as the thought cycled through my speeding brain, I saw something ahead. In the darkness it looked like a pile of garbage or some debris gathered up and clogging the system. But as I got closer I could see it was something else.
I pulled out my gun and spat the cigarette into the water so I’d have a hand for the light and one for the weapon. Then I edged closer.
The pile was two naked male bodies, one black, one white. They were thrown on top of each other face up, and it was clear these were two of the missing John Does, the homeless that Henry Thicke claimed to provide cheap funeral services for.
Their skulls had been crushed in on the left side like they’d been hit by a baseball.
Or a fist.
Both bodies had the post-autopsy Y incision across the chest and down the bellies. Usually these incisions were held together by thick cordlike thread, but somebody had pulled them apart, and inside there was nothing. All of the organs were gone.
All around the bodies was some sort of packing material, excelsior or straw. Some remained inside the empty cavities, but most of it had been pulled out and strewn around.
If I had to guess, it looked like somebody was looking for some organs and came up empty.
Things started to add up: three missing bodies. Two turn up like this, one still missing. And then you take into account that Thicke was messing with some evil hoodie-voodie crap, and that meant that there was a third body out there who was probably some sort of undead freak now and looking for more organs, for what reason was anybody’s guess.
That was when I heard Hendricks’s yell, followed by a gunshot that rang through the sewer tunnels like a sonic boom.
I was deaf for a second and couldn’t tell what direction the sounds came from, so I started running back to the intersection where we’d split up. Not long after I could hear Hendricks yowling.
I ran down the tunnel he’d disappeared in and, as I ran, I pulled out the sawed-off in my jacket. Forget the fucking light. I needed firepower.
I didn’t have to run long. I found Hendricks bleeding to death by the time I reached him near the intersection of sewer tunnels, his side ripped out like a bite out of a melon slice. His upper and lower intestines were splashed on the cement like vomited Udon noodles.
He didn’t have long.
Hendricks looked up at me, blood pouring over his double chin. “I found him.”
I didn’t feel it, but I flashed him a smile. He wanted to go out brave, and I owed him that much.
Hendricks coughed, and his body shook, pushing out another length of intestines from his gaping wound.
“You want me to call somebody?” I asked.
“W-what’s the f-fucking point?” He coughed. “Besides… I’m moonlighting. I’d only get fired.”
I looked around and then back at Hendricks as his eyes started to close. “Which way did he go?”
“Ugly fucker… and f-fast.” He stammered and then, “He headed back toward Thicke’s place.”
I wanted to bolt as soon as he said that, but I didn’t want to leave him to die alone. I lit a smoke and stuck it in his lips. He took one drag and then the cigarette dropped into the water, and Hendricks’s eyes closed for good.
I left him lying there and ran as fast as I could back toward the hole we’d climbed in through. The tunnels were narrow, and I was hitting cement every other step, scraping my arms and raking my head, until finally I came up on the hole.
I climbed fast and found what I’d dreaded right away. Henry Thicke was still chained to the table. His skull was crushed worse than the two bodies in the tunnels. I could see skull fragments cutting through his scalp and brain matter bubbling through the blood. He hadn’t been gutted though. His clothes were torn away, but his belly was untouched—I assumed because I’d shown up and interrupted.
With both weapons out, I turned in the embalming room fast. Except for me, the old lady on the table and Henry Thicke on the floor, the room was empty.
But the hidden door behind the anatomy print was closed. It was open when Hendricks and I went down into the sewers.
I raised the shotgun and the pistol and walked toward the door. I began to extend my leg to release the locking mechanism, a really stupid move on my part, because when the door burst open from the inside, I was thrown completely off balance, backward. I lost both the shotgun and the Glock, and the back of my head smacked against the second embalming table.
I was lying on my back, and standing in the doorway was the third John Doe. He had the same Y incision on his chest and the thick cord holding him together. But his cavity wasn’t empty. It was stuffed to the gills with the organs he’d stolen from the other bodies. His whole torso was bloated and distorted.
The black cord and skin was stretched and tight. It looked like either his skin or the cord would give at any second.
In the dead man’s hand was a tool with three blood-caked prongs that looked like a hand gardening hoe or rake. It might have been some type of surgical tool, but with the freak coming at me with it I
didn’t really give a shit.
The dead man lunged, and I rolled, causing him to smack his own head against the old lady’s table.
I scrambled to my feet and put the two tables between me and the dead man. Unfortunately my guns were on his side. With nothing left to shoot, I grabbed the largest scalpel I could grab off Thicke’s tool tray.
I looked into the dead man’s eyes and saw no life. They were covered with gray film, and his lips foamed. Whatever Henry Thicke had done may have brought the dead back to life but that was about it. The thing was a wild rabid killer. Beyond collecting organs, I doubt it had any real thoughts.
I moved first.
I jumped into the open between the two tables with the corpse drawers at my back. The dead man came at me, raising his giant fork tool over his head.
I slashed straight at his chest where the two downward incisions met the one going the length of his belly. The sharp blade sliced through the taut cord like a hot knife through wax, giving off a popping sound as the blade passed through.
The dead man froze as his chest cavity opened and organs began to pour out onto the floor like a dump truck dropping its load. There were multiple hearts, kidneys, lungs, livers, spleens, pancreases, and intestines—all mixed and mashed up in a jumble stew of gore on the floor.
The dead man made the first sound since I’d seen him. It was a kind of pathetic whimper from the back of his throat, as he dove to the ground in a futile attempt to scoop up the organs and cram them back inside his body.
I just backed away and watched the whimpering corpse grab and shove the organs inside his empty body, only to have them fall right back out again.
There was something really sad about it, to tell the truth. I felt bad for the fucked-up freak. If there was anybody to be pissed at, it was Henry Thicke, and he was dead. At least the thing killed him. I suppose there was some justice there.
As the dead man gathered, shoved and dropped organs, I glanced into the secret room and wondered what Thicke had been attempting. Was he tired of dealing with death and struck by a sudden Frankenstein syndrome? Or had his constant exposure to death finally driven him to want to defeat it?
Hell, maybe he was just lonely and wanted to make some friends.
I walked around the other side of the tables and found my Glock under the old lady’s table. I holstered it and searched for the shotgun. I found it lying just behind where the dead man knelt wallowing in his collection of organs and blood.
The thing didn’t react when I cocked the shotgun or even when I stepped behind him and placed the double-barrels to the back of his head.
All he did was scoop and shove the organs inside him, only to have them fall back out.
The blast ended the repetitive ritual with a booming explosion and a spray of blood, bone, and brains across the floor.
The dead man flopped forward into his gory collection and went still after a death rattle or two.
Then everything was quiet, and I was alone in the embalming room with a bunch of dead people, and I didn’t have a clue who any of them really were or, for that matter, what had happened to them.
I found a cloth and wiped down everything I thought I had touched and backed out of the embalming room and back upstairs where I’d stood when I arrived.
I hadn’t noticed it coming in, but there was a sign on the wall that read, “We take care of your loved ones so you can have peace of mind.”
I’m not sure why, but I started laughing out loud as I left the building and headed back to my car. Maybe it was the absurdity of the whole thing. Maybe it was the fact that I’d just completed another of many cases I wouldn’t see a dime for. Hell, I was out two bills. I’d actually lost money.
And maybe, with the cops on my ass, I couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like when they found the scene in the basement of the mortuary and in the sewers.
If I didn’t know what the hell had happened, that mess would make their heads spin.
Either way, something was funny about the whole disgusting mess.
THE UNLIKELY REDEMPTION OF JARED PIERCE
JOEY O’BRYAN
JARED DIDN’T KNOW what the hell he expected to see, but he sure as hell didn’t expect to see what he saw. The thing in the back seat had skin with the burnt, fissured texture of blowtorched Naugahide. It also held a big-bore revolver in its gloved hand. Jared guessed that if he didn’t follow orders, Extra Crispy would not hesitate to use it. Shrouded in shadow, it was hard to make out much else. Jared’s gaze shifted to his own reflection in the rearview mirror, and he drew a sharp breath. A crescent-moon steel blade was encircled around his neck, half an inch between his Adam’s apple and the circular edge. It was built into the headrest and appeared a sturdy construction. If he so much as sneezed, the damn thing would no doubt take his head off. Happy fuckin’ New Year’s Eve.
Jared had spent the better part of his evening at an AA meeting. It was the smartest place to be on a night where temptation was ever present. He’d left with plenty of time to make it home for the countdown. He never made it out of the parking lot. Last thing he remembered was a bee sting, the prick of a needle as he slid behind the wheel of his Pinto. He’d gone dizzy, the world went black, and next thing he knew his pumpkin had become a carriage. The hood ornament cresting the cherry-red hood confirmed the make of his new ride. It was a boat of a Buick, not his peanut of a Pinto. Parked in an abandoned barn, not a parking lot. His head was pounding. Jared tried to get his bearings. What had it done to him?
“Sodium Pennnnnntothal,” the thing in the backseat hissed, a wheeze forged in gravel and chimney smoke. “A small dose, enough to relax one’s inhibitionssss…” Corrugated scar tissue undulated as it spoke, “Starrrt the carrrrrr.”
Jared instinctively reached for the breathalyzer under the dash, a force of habit. In the time since the accident, he hadn’t been able to start the Pinto without blowing into the device. At first it was a humiliation. Later it became a comfort, a reminder of what he’d overcome. Now a simple turn of the key was all it took to get the engine purring. So easy. Jared’s guts churned. He didn’t trust easy.
Suddenly, Nat King Cole exploded in his ears as the stereo blared to life. “Hark! The herald angels sing…”
Jared flinched, startled, and felt something bite into him as his neck kissed cold steel. His hand flew to the cut but stopped short when he sensed heat blossom from the wound. He sucked in a gasp and froze.
“Carrrrrrreful.”
The thing in the backseat motioned to an oversized cassette jutting from the eight-track player. “My father played this evvvvery Christmas, evvvery New Year’s. He played it the night he wrapped our carrrrrr around an apple tree. Branches were fullll, apples rained all arrrround. Thirty-five years ago. I was nnnnnine. The car caught firrrre. My father was killed inssssstantly. I was not…”
Too bad, Jared thought.
The thing in the backseat leaned forward and set something between them. Jared glanced down, taking care not to move.
A bottle of tequila. Jared swallowed. Hard.
“You’lll celebrate as he did. We will drive. We will drink and we will drive untillll we crash. Everyyyything must be as it wasssss. If the gas runs out first, you live. Ifff we crash…”
Jared couldn’t take his eyes off the bottle. “If we crash, maybe you don’t make it either…”
The thing in the backseat was unfazed. “Alllllllll the crashes I’ve been innnn, I’ve walked away from evvvvvery one…”
Jared was stunned. “You’ve done this before?”
“The prrressssssss calls me Mr. Lucky…”
CLICK. Mr. Lucky cocked the revolver.
“Drink.”
Jared hesitated, then reached for the bottle. “Annnother driverrrrrr once turned the bottle towarrrds the floor,” Mr. Lucky said. “I shhhhot him before he could empty it…”
Jared steeled himself as he tilted the bottle to his lips, years of sobriety about to be undone. The last time Jared had
a drink, four people died. A worm floating in the bottle, another reminder of the grave. The Tequila stung as it hit his lips. Something inside him screamed. That’s when the worm twitched. Jared coughed, surprised, spewing tequila on his shirt. “The worm, it—”
“I make it myself. A little lllleesssssss mescal allows the larva to live.” He placed scornful emphasis on the word “larva,” correcting the bewildered Jared. “Inside a larva, there is a beautiful butterfly. Inside a worm, nothing but muck. Daddddy was a Tequila Man. He loved to eaaaat them.” Mr. Lucky pressed the gun to Jared’s temple, forcing him toward the circular blade. Jared tensed, straining against him. “There is but one ruleeeee, and one ruleeeee only: do not stopppp. Stop dddriving, stop drinking, I shoot.”
Jared reluctantly pulled the Buick out onto the dirt road, almost clipping the side of the barn in the process. You had to put a lot less thought into cornering a Pinto than a Buick. He was reminded of his old Lincoln, the one he’d totaled. Jared had been into big cars his whole life, but had decided to go with something less threatening after the accident.
“Where we going?” Jared asked.
“You’re drivvvving.” Mr. Lucky lay across the backseat, revolver never wavering. Jared’s mind raced as he pulled onto a deserted rural road, trying to dream up a way out of the nightmare. He took it slow, countryside tracking by at a crawl. The leisurely pace would buy him time to get his thoughts together. He was worried Mr. Lucky might object, but he said nothing. As long as he wasn’t breaking the one rule, Jared had only the collar to worry about.
It was enough.
“Ffffirst one, I replaaaaced the sssseatbelt with a curved blade. Number two, steel spikes prrrotruding from the driver’s side door. The third, a concussion grennnade where the airrrbag ought to be.” Mr. Lucky grinned. Something had tickled him. “Did you know, some believe that when the head is sevvvered from the body, the brain can continuue to function for up to fffffifteen seconds? It’s never beeeen proven, though maaany have tried. I hooooope there’s some truth to it, for your sake…”