by K. L. Hiers
At least it was his blood this time. It usually wasn’t with his line of work.
The split in his lip was small but swollen. For such a little cut, it hurt like hell. He experimentally ran his tongue over it to feel it burn, glancing at himself in the mirror.
Do I look like a good boy…?
Cypress was there in his thoughts again, and Tom could recreate his sweet scent perfectly in his mind. He remembered how strong Cypress’s hand had felt, and it was so easy to imagine those powerful arms wrapped around him, pinning him down…
He didn’t want to have to think about Mrs. Dresser’s screams, he didn’t want to worry about whether or not young Brady had ever been in love, he didn’t want to hurt, he didn’t want to worry about selling the damn embalming fluid tonight, he… he wanted someone to take over and make it all go away.
No, not just someone.
He wanted Cypress.
Those brief moments back in the garage had been so intense, and Tom’s cock flexed inside his pants as he replayed them again. It was difficult to explain how desperate he felt now or why it had come over him so quickly. All he could think about was Cypress telling him what to do, how to feel, and helping him quiet all the noise in his mind.
I could be such a good boy.
Shit.
Tom quickly finished washing up and headed back to the main office, finding Bosco busy with the paperwork. Aaron was with him, glancing over the documents as Bosco finished up.
If Tom was a bit flushed from his brief fantasy, he would blame the upsetting removal.
“You okay?” Aaron asked, cringing when he saw Tom’s lip. “Shit, she really got you good, huh?”
“I’m good,” Tom insisted. “Really.”
Bosco grunted.
“I’m okay,” Tom said, trying to sound more confident. “Little shook up, but I’m okay now.” He saw the dispatch desk was empty, and he asked, “Where’s Earl?”
“Up front with Gerald and Mr. Crosby again,” Aaron replied. “The Chicken Saga continues.”
“What’s going on now?”
“Apparently, Steve also decided to take the hearse through a fast-food place because his chicken was hungry, and more people saw him. Might be on the news.”
“What did he get the chicken?” Tom wondered out loud.
“I hope it wasn’t nuggets because that would be kinda sick.” Aaron took the paperwork from Bosco, flipping through it quickly. “Okay, lemme go call them, see what they’re thinking. Don’t be surprised if I can’t get an answer about embalming right away.”
“It’s cool.” Tom shrugged off his jacket and flopped down in his chair. “I’ll be here.”
The sooner embalming was performed, the better the results would be. A few hours might not be too damaging to the process, but beyond that, a delay could severely complicate things.
“I’ll let you know.” Aaron sat at his desk, picking up his phone and dialing.
Bosco got up to leave, waving wordlessly at Tom. He was probably going outside to smoke again. When they didn’t have removals to perform, there wasn’t much else for Bosco or the other removal technicians to do.
Tom waved back, and he turned his attention to his desk. It was awkward sitting there listening to Aaron talk to the Dresser family, so he tried to tune him out. He was starting to think about Cypress again.
Better than worrying about Junior and what he had to do tonight.
Tom’s stomach lurched with dread, and he wished he knew what to do. Junior had him by the damn balls, and he was totally trapped in this nightmare.
If he tried to tell Gerald or Mr. Crosby what Junior was making him do, they would probably fire them both on the spot. Tom would almost certainly lose his embalming license, and then probably be arrested. He felt pretty confident Gerald would love to press charges to make an example out of them.
If he decided to keep his mouth shut, Junior was going to continue using him like this indefinitely. It was never going to end, and Tom knew they were sure to get caught eventually. He couldn’t keep fixing the inventory numbers to account for the missing product. Someone was going to notice, and he would have to explain why so much embalming fluid was gone.
No matter what he did, he was so royally fucked. He had never regretted anything more in his life than helping Junior, and he scrambled for some way out of this.
Run Junior over with his car? No, that was insane, although it would be immensely satisfying.
Leave the country? Not very practical, expensive, and he didn’t want to lose his job here at the funeral home.
New identity? Would save on moving expenses, but he would still have to leave Crosby-Ayers. Plus, he was a terrible liar.
He was so lost in his plotting that he didn’t notice Aaron was off the phone until he spoke up.
“Hey, Tom?”
“Huh?” Tom jerked his gaze over with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I was sort of zoning out.”
“It’s okay. I went ahead and got embalming permission for Mr. Brady Dresser,” Aaron said. “I’ll write it up right now and bring it back to you if you wanna go ahead and get started.”
“Oh, sure.” Tom got up and headed to the back. He was grateful for something to distract him. He found Brady still resting on the stretcher next to the cooler and rolled him into the prep room to get going.
Their prep room was old, small but clean with wooden cabinets and a faded tile floor. There were two embalming tables, an antique porcelain monster and a newer stainless-steel model. A long stretch of counter ran along the wall at the feet of the tables to hold the embalming machines. They were both modern devices with tanks capable of holding up to three gallons of fluid.
Next to each embalming machine was a specialized faucet system with three handles; one adjusted the flow of water to a long neck faucet that could be positioned over the embalming machine to fill it as needed, a second one controlled a fixture that fed a long water hose for the embalming table to facilitate bathing and rinsing, and the last powered the hydro aspirator.
The hydro aspirator was a unique apparatus, shaped like a tall faucet with a short neck where a special hose would be attached. This hose, in turn, would be connected to a large, long hollow instrument called a trocar that was used to drain excess fluids from hollow organs like the lungs, stomach, and bladder after arterial embalming from the machine was completed.
Tom tended to favor the porcelain table, chipped and difficult to adjust as it was, and he wheeled Brady up beside it. He undid the straps of the stretcher and walked around to the other side, gently pulling him over to the table.
He moved the empty stretcher back into the hallway to make up later and unlocked the supply closet to start getting all his personal protective equipment on. He glanced over at the shelves packed with various embalming fluids, his gut twisting uncomfortably when he thought about what he would have to do later that night.
Pulling on a thick plastic gown, booties for his feet, and gloves, he finished his personal protective equipment ensemble with a small surgical mask. Once he was fully suited up, he returned to the embalming table to start preparing Brady.
He removed the sheet and tossed it into the dirty linen bin. He carefully undressed Brady and folded up his pajamas to place into a plastic personal effects bag in case the family wanted them back. He covered up Brady’s exposed groin with a small towel for modesty and began to flex and work out the rigor mortis in his upper arms and neck.
Rigor mortis was a phenomenon that showed up a few hours after someone died. It caused all the muscles to become stiff and rigid, making proper positioning of the body difficult and therefore requiring the need to massage and flex the body to break it up first. After enough time, it would leave the body on its own, but that could take days.
There were unusual cases when a person would be in what embalmers called instant rigor, where the deceased would be immediately fixed in the position they died in. This was common in sudden and very traumatic deaths, such as someo
ne who shot themselves whose hand would still be posed as if holding the gun.
Once rigor was removed from the body, however, it would not return. Tom was able to work the last bits of stiffness from Brady’s legs, and he placed Brady’s hands on his stomach, right over left.
Because Brady was never married, there was no reason to display his left hand on top because he wouldn’t have a ring to show. The thought made Tom’s heart hurt, and he sighed miserably.
He found himself holding Brady’s hand, pointless as it may have been, whispering, “I’m sorry you’re here, kiddo, but I’ll take good care of you.”
It was important for Tom to remember that the body he was taking care of was a person. Even though their life was over, what was left behind was still sacred. This was someone’s child, maybe a father or a mother, and Tom never wanted to lose sight of that. Taking care of the dead was a sacred profession, and it was his duty to always treat the deceased with the utmost respect.
He began to pour water into the embalming machine using the faucet, and then he added the chemicals he had predicted using at the time of the removal. The big tank of the embalming machine ended up being filled with a rich orange concoction, and Tom could tell by the color he had calculated it correctly.
Next, he began to gather all the instruments he would need to perform the actual embalming: scissors, scalpel, forceps, a large set of angular forceps, and an aneurysm hook. The hook was exclusively an embalmers’ tool, a thin piece of metal with a sharp crook at one end for dissecting and isolating vessels, and the other end had a slightly blunter point for separating the tissues.
Tom couldn’t start the process until Aaron physically brought him the embalming permission. Even though he trusted him, Tom needed to see that paper before he broke any skin to be safe. He took his time disinfecting Brady’s face, only doing what could easily be reversed if the family had a last-minute change of heart about the embalming.
Aaron came in with the permission in hand as he was finishing up his disinfection, and Tom was ready to go. Aaron didn’t stay to bother him, knowing he preferred to embalm alone.
Close the eyes and mouth. Raise the carotid artery and jugular vein. Fluid in the artery, blood out the vein. Pierce the organs with the trocar after arterial embalming was complete, use the trocar to inject a round of cavity fluid.
Tom took his time, ensuring everything was perfect, and stayed focused on making Brady as lifelike as possible. A typical embalming might take one to two hours, maybe three if he needed to raise additional arteries. When Tom was knocking on five hours and everyone else had already gone home for the day, he knew it was because he was still prolonging the inevitable.
Eight o’clock was coming, and he would have to get the embalming fluid ready for the deal.
By the time Tom was done, Brady was pink and radiant, smiling softly, and that was the last thing Tom saw before he draped a fresh sheet over his body. The damage for such an invasive procedure was minimal—a small incision along Brady’s collarbone to inject fluid and drain blood, and a small puncture in his abdomen where the trocar had done its work.
Small price to pay, Tom thought, for the moment when Mrs. Dresser saw her son again in his casket. He wouldn’t look like a strange gaping thing. Brady would be her son again, at least long enough to say goodbye.
Tom stripped off his personal protective equipment, finished mopping up, and anxiously watched the clock. Junior’s contact would be here soon, and Tom had too much nervous energy to sit still. He went ahead and brought two cases of formaldehyde to the end of the hallway and set them on an empty stretcher.
Tom assumed the contact would come through the flower delivery door into the garage as he had before, and he propped open the hallway door. He wheeled the stretcher into the garage, dropping down each end a few notches so he could sit. This was the absolute worst part because anyone could walk right in and see him here with two giant crates of embalming fluid.
Scott or Bosco or whoever was on night call could come in at any moment if they had a removal. Maybe they wouldn’t ask what he was up to, but Gerald and Mr. Crosby were both known to pop in during the evenings to check on things, and they would certainly have questions for what the hell Tom was doing with the formaldehyde.
Tom couldn’t stop tapping his foot, his gut twisting up tighter with every passing minute, and he jumped right out of his skin when the flower door finally opened.
But it wasn’t Junior’s contact.
It was Cypress.
“What are you doing here?” Tom blurted out.
“Well, hello to you, too,” Cypress said, holding out a large standing spray full of lush roses. “It would appear that I’m delivering flowers. I do that, you know.”
“But it’s so late…” Tom gulped as he hopped up from the stretcher. “You, uh, you should really go home.”
“Mr. Crosby requested these personally, and I had a funny little feeling you might be here working late,” Cypress explained as he set the stand up next to the door. “He actually called me to apologize for Gerald being such a peach earlier—”
“Cypress,” Tom cut in quickly, “you really need to go.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.” Frowning deeply, Cypress advanced toward Tom and intently scanned over his face. He zeroed right in on his busted lip, and his eyes narrowed.
What was that? Anger? Concern? Tom couldn’t read his expression, and he didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t lie to Cypress, and he sure as hell couldn’t tell him the truth.
“Hey,” Cypress murmured, reaching out to gently touch Tom’s chin, “what happened to you? Are you okay?”
“I’m so not okay,” Tom whispered hurriedly, feeling exposed by such a simple question. He could hear Mrs. Dresser screaming again, and he didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to keep selling formaldehyde for that bastard, Junior. He wanted it all to stop.
Hearing the flower door starting to open again, Tom reached for Cypress’s arm. “Shit! Come on. You can’t be here.”
“What the—!” Cypress was startled as Tom pushed him into the hallway.
“Please!” Tom pleaded urgently, shutting the door right in his face. He turned around in a panic as the contact walked in, and he tried to smile.
“You look like shit,” the contact said. He was an older man, white, and he always wore very thick glasses.
“Thanks,” Tom mumbled, gesturing to the cases. He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. “Well, here you go.”
“Looks good,” the contact said, reading the labels on the boxes. “Thirty index, huh? That’s some really strong stuff.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Reaching into his pocket, the contact offered a stack of cash. “Tell Junior we appreciate it.”
“Sure.” Tom took the money and shoved it into his back pocket. He felt dirty even touching it.
“A pleasure doing business with you.” The contact smirked, picking up the boxes and slipping back out the door without another word.
Instantly relieved to see him go, Tom turned around to face the hallway door. Now he had to think up something fast to try and explain to Cypress what was going on. He gulped loudly when he saw the door wasn’t closed all the way, spying Cypress peeking out at him.
Well, shit.
Opening the door fully, Tom asked anxiously, “Did you see anything?”
“It depends,” Cypress replied. “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
“About?”
“About what I saw,” Cypress mused, studying Tom.
“Well, uh, what do you think you saw?”
“I think I saw you giving a guy some big ol’ cases of embalming fluid and taking some cash,” Cypress replied, casually leaning against a nearby stretcher.
Tom’s heart began to pound.
“And I happen to know that embalming fluid can be used in some very nasty ways,” Cypress went on, toying with the cot cover a
nd glancing over the embroidery.
“Oh?” Tom felt sick.
“Like dipping cigarettes in it, and then sellin’ ‘em. Pretty illegal.” Cypress tugged on the edge of the cover. “It can cause some pretty bad hallucinations, delusions, and paranoia—”
“Look, okay, I get it!” Tom advanced, curling his hands into tight fists. “Just… just stop. I know it’s bad. Okay, I fuckin’ know.”
“Then why are you doing it?” Cypress asked plainly.
“I can’t… I’m not telling you that.”
“Well, I guess you can explain it to the cops—”
“No! Wait! I’ll do anything, okay?” Tom pleaded. “Please, fuck. Don’t. I need this job. I can’t lose this fuckin’ job. Working here is my life.”
“Anything?” Cypress tilted his head as he looked Tom over again. “Well, that only works if you think you have something to offer.”
“What do you want? Money?” Tom scoffed, huffing in frustration.
“Well, you did just take a very serious stack of cash. I am a pretty big fan of money.”
“I can’t give you that. It’s for—” Tom stopped before he said too much, quickly correcting himself. “It’s not even mine, okay? I can’t do that. I don’t have any money to give you. There has to be something else.”
“Right. How about you drop down on your pretty knees right now and suck my dick then?” Cypress rolled his eyes.
Tom’s loins were assaulted by a sudden surge of heat, and he stared at Cypress’s crotch as his mouth reflexively watered. He’d heard Cypress say that before, to Gerald of all people, and Tom knew he was probably joking.
But if that’s really all it would take…
“Fine,” Tom muttered through gritted teeth. “I’ll do it.”
“Come on,” Cypress was still chiding him, apparently deaf to Tom’s offer. “You really don’t expect me to believe you don’t get some kinda cut from that—”
Tom raised his voice, snapping, “I said I’ll do it.”
“What?” Cypress blinked.
“Suck your dick,” Tom replied, already starting to kneel before he could change his mind. He’d had some rough one night stands before. This wasn’t so different. He could do this, get Cypress off his back, and stay out of jail.
