by Alan Baxter
Isiah looked around, getting a feel for the place. They were busy tonight, that was certain. Bad for the public, good for him. He headed toward a corridor which he knew from experience led to a service lift.
As he passed an office he glanced in. No one in there. He stepped inside, gently closed the door. There was a coat stand with a couple of white doctors jackets in one corner of the office. He took one, slipped it on over his leather jacket. It felt at least as bulky as it must look. Never mind, the subterfuge was as much psychological as visual. He had a quick look on one of the desks, picked up a couple of unimportant looking papers. Checking the pockets of the white coat to make sure he was not about to leave with something that a patient might need, he tucked the papers under his arm and went to the door.
Just as he was about to reach for the handle, a shadow appeared on the other side, distorted by frosted glass. He could make out the white coat, dark hair, but little else. Nowhere to run. He stepped back silently as the door swung open and a doctor stepped in, still talking to someone over his shoulder. He looked forward again as he pushed the door closed behind him, started as he saw Isiah. Immediately the doctor started to say something, his mouth making an ‘o’ of surprise. Isiah reached out, pressed his fingertips to the doctor’s forehead. The doctor’s eyes glazed and he slumped toward the floor. Isiah caught him under the arms and hoisted him into a swivel chair by the nearest desk. He would be pretty hazy for a while when he came round, not quite remembering what had happened. What was another doctor dozing off at his desk between patients? Isiah had been gentle, he would only be out for a minute or two.
It was surprisingly easy for Isiah to put people to sleep, more so now than ever before. Everyone seemed to spend so much of their time tired. It took little coercion to convince them to simply drop off, especially people like doctors, nurses, waiting staff.
Isiah opened the door a crack, peeked out to make sure the way was clear. He stepped from the room and walked toward the service lift. Walking as if a purpose of great importance occupied his mind, busily shuffling his papers. No one paid any attention to him in the bright, gleaming corridors. Everybody looks the same when you don’t pay much attention, especially if you think you already know all about them, letting them slip comfortably into one of many archetypal pigeonholes.
As he rounded a corner he saw the lift directly ahead of him, the doors beginning to slide shut. An orderly and a wheeled hospital bed were already inside. With a little mental pressure he caused the doors to open again and quickly jogged up to them, ducking inside the lift as they once again began to close.
The gurney was ferrying the dead this time, the odour of death filling the lift. Isiah hated his heightened senses sometimes, wished for the blessed ignorance that so many mortals lived their entire lives in. Still, not really a surprise that this was a corpse. This lift only went down, and there were three basement levels. The first was storage, file archives. The third was the basement car park. Isiah and the orderly both got out at the second basement level. The morgue.
There was a Coke machine against the wall right outside the lift. Isiah turned to the machine, rummaged in his pocket for change as the orderly pushed his gurney through the double plastic swing doors leading into the morgue itself. He glanced back over his shoulder at Isiah as the doors swung back, closed with a rubbery slap.
Isiah pushed some coins into the machine, pressed the button for a Coke. The can tumbled into the metal bin at the bottom, booming loudly in the quiet concrete room. Taking the cold, bright red drink, he turned to the double doors, peered cautiously inside the morgue.
The orderly had parked his charge up against a wall and was talking to someone out of Isiah’s sight. With a dry laugh at some unknown joke, he shrugged his shoulders, headed back for the doors. Isiah pushed open one side, then stepped back as if in surprise to let the orderly through. He nodded and smiled in what he considered was a suitably doctor-like way. The orderly looked pointedly at Isiah’s bulky doctor’s coat, the black leather collars of his jacket showing. Isiah grinned good-naturedly. ‘Gets pretty cold down here!’ Trying to sound jovial. The orderly nodded slightly, stepped past and went to the lift.
Everything inside was concrete and brushed chrome, clean and sterile, yet still bearing a comical resemblance to a mad professor’s laboratory from some fifties b-movie. The overpowering smell of formaldehyde did nothing to dispel that impression. There was a radio playing somewhere, tinny and crackling, Meatloaf planning to hit the highway like a battering ram, on a silver-black phantom bike.
Silver coloured metal doors covered the far wall, each about three feet square, all temporary refrigerated coffins, grey cadavers on sliding beds concealed behind each one. Isiah could not tell for certain, but he suspected that there were few that were unoccupied. Between him and the wall of miniature icy tombs were three metal tables, each with a body on it, a bright halogen above. Two of the bodies were covered with olive green sheets. There was a metal bench along the left hand wall, covered with all manner of instruments, like a master torturer’s proud collection. The recently left gurney, bearing its deceased cargo, stood by the end of the bench. There was a security camera panning gently back and forth right above Isiah’s head, electronic eye coldly watching the morgue. Isiah silently disabled it with a flick of the mind before stepping into its field of view.
A white coated coroner, gloved and masked, leaned over the body on the furthest table from Isiah. At least, Isiah hoped he was the coroner as he leant into a huge curved saw pressed against the body’s breastbone. There was a grinding, cracking sound as the saw toothed edge split the ribcage open. The coroner pushed a chromed clamp into the newly created opening, twisted it. With a wet tearing sound the cadaver’s chest heaved open, the ribs separating to reveal the organs beneath.
Isiah raised an eyebrow, took a deep breath. He stepped around the end of the nearest table, approached the engrossed coroner. The coroner looked up, jumping slightly in surprise. He grinned as he put down his tools. ‘Sorry, Doc, didn’t hear you come in.’ Isiah was not surprised. The man’s grin faded slightly as he looked more closely. His sunken, red rimmed eyes scanned Isiah’s face, his pallid, greasy skin creasing into a frown. ‘Do I know you?’ he asked suspiciously.
Isiah gently shook his head, reached out for the coroner. The little man quickly stepped back, reaching for the large curved saw on the table next to him. Isiah grabbed one bony shoulder in a vice-like grip, raised his other hand to the coroner’s forehead. With a brief expression of horror, the coroner’s eyes glazed like the doctor before him and he slumped toward the floor. Isiah lowered him gently to the polished tiles and dragged him into the corner where he could keep an eye on him. He had been a little rougher, the man would be out longer than the doctor, but Isiah would have to work fast now. He reached out and switched off the radio, to hear anyone coming. Heavy quiet descended cold around him, the only sound a gentle buzzing from the cooling units.
He cracked open the can of Coke, looked around at the corpses as he swigged from it. This one on the table in front of him was no good, already half open. He went to the next table. No point in pulling back the pale green sheet covering the body there, it was obviously female. That would be too much trouble. The next one, too old. Shame, probably John Doe, wino. The body on the gurney that the orderly had brought in was more promising, young man, fit looking. Then Isiah noticed extensive bruising around his neck. With a little mental probing he discovered it was broken, the spinal cord severed. The skull was cracked too, and there was an awful lot of shit in his blood; speed and pot mainly. Far too much work in repairing all that. He sighed, turned towards the square metal doors ranging across the wall behind him.
He began in the top left corner, systematically checking each one. Woman. Woman. The third door he closed again very quickly, not quite sure what was inside and not wanting to find out. The coroner on the floor groaned, his head rolling from one side to the other. Isiah paused, watched him for a second,
but he didn’t come round. He opened the fourth door. Empty. The fifth, Ah, what have we here.
He slid the metal tray out on its smooth rollers to have a closer look. The face was that of a young black man, late twenties maybe. From his face he looked fit and well before his death, but it was never easy to be sure. There was a clipboard lying on his chest. Personal information, name, Andre Todd, address, age, twenty eight, pretty good guess. There was a brief description of the man’s death at the bottom of the page. Died on a football pitch during a match, collapsed after scoring, DOA. No previous medical conditions of note, cause of death unknown. Isiah pulled away the sheet covering the rest of him. His body was smooth, finely muscled, athletic.
He placed his hand on the man’s chest, began mentally scanning the body, looking for signs of breakages, disease, foreign chemicals, his fingers gently walking across the smooth, dark skin.
He was completely familiar with human anatomy, having studied the medical techniques of dozens of cultures. He understood just about everything from standard western surgical practice, to traditional Chinese medicine, to Native American medicine dances and more. Coupled with his ability to observe and manipulate matter on a molecular level, he was a considerably able doctor, even if he didn’t have any formal qualifications. He could do most surgery with his mind, which was something even the world’s most respected physicians and surgeons could not lay claim to. Isiah’s methods made keyhole surgery seem archaic. The functions of the body, nervous, cardiovascular, muscles and bones, none of it was a mystery to him. But no matter how unique and complete his knowledge and ability, it was difficult. And tiring, mentally and physically.
His immediate search had found nothing, no cause of death. This one might do. He looked thoughtfully at the dead man’s face. The brown skin was waxy, slightly discoloured, the lips blue. His eyes were closed. Isiah gently peeled back one eyelid, revealing a dark hazel eye beneath. He leaned in to look more closely. The eye was heavily bloodshot. Raising an eyebrow, Isiah checked the other eye. Also bloodshot, some of the vessels burst near the tear duct. Interesting.
He placed his hand on the top of the man’s head, the tightly curled hair spongy beneath his palm. He let his mind gently probe, like an x-ray, CAT scan. There. There was a blood clot at the back of the skull. It had caused blood to build up around the brain, exerting pressure, choking the brain. Poor guy. If anyone asked, they would probably discover that the young man had been complaining of headaches a lot recently, blurry vision, probably been taking a lot of painkillers.
Isiah checked the heart again, looking closer. There was some evidence of strain, although it was, of course, impossible to estimate the previous blood pressure of a corpse. Still, there was information enough. Embolism. Probably been building up for a while, then the big game, stress, extreme physical exertion, then he scores, excitement, blood pressure and pulse sky rocket, then bang, it’s all over. A freak occurrence to simply drop dead like that. Usually a fainting fit or coma would be warning enough to get the victim to hospital, then surgery to remove the clot and everything would be fine. With a little luck. But sometimes people seem to run out of luck right when they need it most.
Shit happens. And it was good for Isiah’s purposes. Hopefully there was little or no brain damage associated with the embolism. There was no way of telling for certain. There was very little bruising on the brain that Isiah could detect, no necrosis of the brain tissue. That was a good sign. If the embolism was going to cause some physical or mental after effect due to the pressure it had put on the brain it wouldn’t show now. If there was some after effect it may only be a speech impediment, some basic motor skills impaired. Hopefully. Isiah could deal with that if necessary. He stood chewing his bottom lip, thinking. He would check the others. If there was nothing better, he would go with this one.
A few minutes later he was staring at the football player again. All the others were either female, too old, heads blown away by shotguns. This one was the only likely candidate.
Isiah took a deep breath, gently probed into the man’s head again. He located the embolism, began using his telekinetic ability to break up the blockage. He worked quickly, but carefully, breaking away the foreign matter that had caused the embolism, letting the brain settle back into position. It was difficult without an operating bloodstream to carry away the excess naturally, but Isiah simply removed it completely. It seemed like remarkably little damage had been caused. Right, he would have to go with this one, finish sorting it out later.
He went over to the gurney with the broken necked youth on it, wheeled it over to the fridges. He hoisted the youth up onto his shoulder, then gently lifted the athlete off the metal tray, carefully placed him on the gurney. He laid the other corpse onto the tray, pushed it back and closed the door. That would confuse the doctors later, when they read the report and expected to autopsy a black athlete who had died in unknown circumstances and found a white junkie with a broken neck and busted head. Never mind, more admin fuck ups, heads are gonna roll. Pulling a sheet over the young football player, Isiah began pushing the gurney toward the double plastic doors.
Halfway to the doors, he saw someone approaching from the other side. He sensed the orderly from before. The orderly pushed open the doors and stopped dead looking at Isiah. He looked down at the gurney, back up to Isiah. ‘I don’t know you. Who are you? Where’s Doctor Stempson?’
Isiah stepped around the gurney, his face showing no expression at all. The orderly backed up quickly, stopped when he bumped into the double doors, then pushed against them. His face betrayed his fear, his eyes showing that he was about to flee. As he turned to run toward the lift, Isiah grabbed the back of his pale blue overalls. The man let out a yelp of fright. Isiah spun him around to face him. The orderly’s face was pale, his bottom lip quivering slightly as he leaned back, trying to pull away. ‘Don’t hurt me, man, don’t hurt me!’
Isiah slowly shook his head. ‘I won’t hurt you.’ The third person that day slumped to the floor at Isiah’s feet. He dragged the orderly back through the doors, propped him up against the wall. A few moments later he was riding the lift down to the basement car park, the gurney carrying the corpse of Andre Todd beside him.
When the lift chimed and the doors slid open, Isiah was ready in case anybody was waiting outside. Leaning out of the lift, looking around, Isiah discovered the entire car park empty of people. Good. He pushed the gurney out of the lift, looked around at the cars parked in ordered rows among dark grey concrete pillars. There was a large car with tinted windows just across from him. That would do nicely. As he approached the car, he exerted some mental coercion on the lock on the driver’s side door. He reached around to unlock the back door and lifted the body from the gurney onto the back seat, dragging the sheet carefully over it. He could do without being pulled over today.
He kicked the gurney away as he climbed into the driver’s seat. A little more mental exertion and the car coughed into life. He revved the engine as he disengaged the ignition barrel. He didn’t want the steering wheel to lock up on the first bend. He pulled the car into gear and headed for the exit.
There was a barrier at the exit, ready to be raised by the security guard in his little booth. Isiah kept looking forward as he approached the barrier, raised one hand in a farewell gesture as he slowed to a near stop, his forearm obscuring just enough of his face. Hopefully. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the guard nod from behind his magazine, touch something out of sight. With a loud clunk, the barrier rose, angling up on its elbow joint towards the low concrete ceiling. Isiah quickly drove out into the night, turned right onto the road and headed out of town, glad to be clear of the hospital.
He needed somewhere safe to stash the body while he attended to other things and had just the place. It was morbid in a way, but strangely apt. And it was pretty much guaranteed to be peaceful.
After a ten minute drive Isiah pulled up out the front of a large, gothic church, intricate spires and minarets sta
rk against the night sky. Checking to make sure the place was as deserted as it seemed, he got out of the car, lifted the body from the back seat. He trotted around the side of the church, headed into the dark, quiet graveyard behind. He felt ghoulish, carrying corpses around in churchyards in the dark. He could not help but smile, Well, officer, it’s like this... He cast a silent prayer to any gods that might be listening, asking not to be disturbed.
It was nearly pitch dark in the churchyard, clouds covering the moon, overhanging trees making deep, velvety shadows. He could see well in the dark, better than the average person, but he still trod carefully. He stopped at a large, square concrete tomb. It stood about five feet high above ground, angels and cherubs on the corners and a little metal gate at one end. A low wrought iron fence all around, to keep away undesirables. Isiah jumped easily over the fence, landed silently in front of the metal gate. He crouched down and, propping the body of the young athlete against his knee, he twisted a hidden bolt at the top and pushed against the smooth metal. It took a lot of strength, but the gate eventually began to move with a metallic scraping noise that sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet cemetery. He gathered the body up in his arms and ducked in through the low doorway, into the dank, dark tomb.
Worn stone steps led down. Isiah sat the body on the steps, leaning against the rough stone wall, pushed the door closed again. There was a muffled, metallic click as it locked. He fumbled in his pocket for a second before pulling out a Zippo lighter. He sparked a flame, stuttering orange casting ghostly, dancing shadows on the stones. The steps went down ten more feet before levelling off at the bottom into a stone walled chamber about twelve feet square, with a low smooth ceiling. A large stone coffin occupied the centre of the chamber, like an Egyptian sarcophagus only less ostentatious. He knew this particular coffin was empty because he had put it there over a century ago. He was lucky that this particular bolt hole was so close at hand, left to him by a rich old lady that he had saved from a nasty cult a long time ago. It was nice when things went his way sometimes.
