Hanging the handset up, Raymond got up from the chair, and made a beeline through the embalming room.
Knowing that Mr. Briggs would be in his office on the second floor. Raymond thought it best to speak directly with his employer. In his opinion, phone conversations always lost something in translation. Stepping into the hall, he saw one of Mr. Briggs grandsons, Brice Hood, pushing a two-tiered cart around the corner of the hallway from the crematorium.
Sitting in the center of the top tray of the cart was a small plain brown box with a white note card taped to the top. Raymond couldn’t read the writing on the card. But knew that the name of the latest customer of the crematorium was on it.
“Hi Mr. Taylor, great morning isn’t it.” The wiry framed boy said, wearing a lab coat that looked as if it had mistakenly been put in the wash with a load of blue jeans.
“Too soon to tell,” Raymond replied, as he met Brice at the door of the holding room.
Stepping in, Raymond held the door open as Brice pushed the cart through.
“Thank you,” Brice said, as he pushed the cart around the table in the center of the room. Stopping next to the cooler. He opened the middle drawer of the row of cadaver storage lockers. Pulling out the stainless-steel tray, Brice set the box of remains on it. Then peeled the notecard from the top.
Closing the drawer with an elbow. He folded the tape over the top edge of the card and slid it into the card holder set on the front of the drawer. “Busy day?”
“Looks like it may turn out that way,” Raymond replied, remembering that he had to take Mrs. Wilkens body upstairs to the holding room so she could be prepared for her services. “Have you seen your grandfather today?”
“Yeah, he’s in his office as usual.” Brice replied, as the mortician stepped towards the cooler. “Here, let me get that for you.”
“Such a gentleman,” Raymond said, as Brice grabbed the handle of the cooler and popped the latch open. The seal broke with a hiss, as a puff of frigid air seeped around the door in a rolling mist.
As Brice pulled the door open, Raymond stepped in and grabbed the gurney that Mrs. Wilkens lay on. Not looking into the dark confines of the cooler, Raymond quickly pulled the gurney out.
“Mrs. Wilkens needs to be dressed for her services,” Raymond said, as Brice pushed the door closed. Not giving the little old lady standing at the back of the cooler time to turn around and realize that the door had opened.
“I’m heading up now,” Brice said. “I can take her upstairs for you if your too busy.”
“No, no, but could you find the dress that her family brought in. I think Samantha placed it in her office last night.”
“Can do,” Brice replied.
As they both started for the door. Raymond pushed the gurney into the hall as a heavy thump came from inside the cooler.
“What was that?” Brice asked, catching the swinging door.
“Probably the condensers turning on,” Raymond replied, as he continued towards the elevator.
Pausing, Brice looked back at the cooler as another thump came from within. Not as loud as the first. But still with enough force for him to hear through the thick door.
“Can you get the elevator?” Raymond asked, as the wheels on the gurney took a sudden turn to the left, forcing him to straighten it.
“Of course,” Brice said, figuring that the sound was as the mortician said. Letting go of the door, he quickly walked past the gurney. Reaching the elevator, he punched the up button.
They heavy box came down a few seconds later. As the door slid open, Brice grabbed the end of the gurney and helped Raymond get Mrs. Wilkens in before the doors began to close. Pressing the up button, Raymond gave Brice a nod of thanks in the elevator’s cramp confines.
The elevator began to rise, a muffled cry came from the cooler. As the eighty-pound woman feebly pounded against the thick door as her core temperature dropped to a chilling forty degrees.
CHAPTER FIVE
Reaching the first floor, the elevator did its programed routine and opened to the front of the funeral home.
“Shouldn’t we go through the back?” Brice asked, ready to push the rear door button so they could take Mrs. Wilkens to the holding room through the back hall.
“No, I need to go upstairs and speak with your grandfather.” Raymond replied, as he started to push the gurney out.
At the halfway point, Jennifer’s voice cut down the hall. High heels clicking as she appeared, taking hold of the end of the gurney. “Whoa.”
Raymond stopped as the door of the elevator began to shut. Striking the edge of the gurney, the sensors caught the resistance and slid the door back open.
“Remember we have a tour going on,” she said, as she started to push the gurney back into the elevator. As if on que, a tangle of teenage voices rose in the hall.
“Do you want me to open the back doors?”
“Yes,” Jennifer replied, noticing Brice for the first time today.
Raymond followed with a quick, “No, I need to get upstairs.” He then pushed the button for the second floor.
The door closed, forcing Jennifer to step in.
“What’s the rush?” She asked.
Raymond answered, “A call from Mercy Hospital. They need us to take an influx of clients. It seems that they have been overbooked this morning.”
“How many?” Jennifer asked, her eyebrows raising at the thought of potential commissions.
“I’m not sure. They asked us to take as many as we can hold.”
“Was there a accident?”
“They didn’t state what happened. And I am most certain that they do not have the slightest idea themselves. That’s why I must speak to Mr. Briggs right away.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“We will need drivers, and paperwork.” Raymond said, as the elevator came to a stop at the second floor. The bell rang and the door opened. “Send Brice, he needs something to do.”
“What about Mrs. Wilkens,” Brice said, glancing at the sheet covered body.
“Leave her. I will take her to the preparation room momentarily.” Raymond replied, stepping out into the carpeted hallway. He watched as the door shut and began to automatically descend to the first floor.
Feeling Brice’s eyes on her. Jennifer gave a slight smile and said, “You should probably get the vans ready. I’ll let everyone know what’s going on.”
“Sounds good,” Brice replied, as the elevator came to a stop at the first floor. Before the front door opened he pushed the rear door button. “What about the tour?”
“We’ll work around them. I’m sure the tour will be over before you get back.”
CHAPTER SIX
Flipping open the latch on a white tin box mounted against the wall on the right side of the loading dock doors. Brice looked over the six sets of keys and black fobs on large silver-plated keyrings, hanging from plastic hooks. Held by a Velcro strap to the back of the lid was a small notebook and a pen tied it by a cotton string.
Taking the van keys, Brice took out the notebook. Flipping it open to the last entry, ten pages in. He wrote his name, time and which keys were taken. Mileage and destination would be filed in with the paperwork on clipboards in each van by whoever was driving to the hospital.
Replacing the notebook. Brice flipped the lid shut, and then pressed the door opener used to open the gate to the backlot.
As he pushed through the dock doors, he saw that the gate was slowly rolling closed. He thought of stepping back in and pressing the opener again. But decided against it.
Going down the steps, Brice immediately noticed the lack of cars on the road that passed the right side of the funeral home. The drop in noise was a welcome change from the multitude of cars that drove by on any given hour.
Halfway across the lot, Brice pressed the fobs unlock button to van one. In response, all the doors unlocked and the taillights flashed.
Opening the driver side door, Brice reached in and grabb
ed the clipboard laying between the seats. Taking the pen from under the silver clip. He began the usual checklist before any service call was made. He filled in the answers he already knew, name, date, destination. Starting mileage was already written in by the last person to use the van.
Stepping to the back, he popped open the rear doors. Checking over the inventory was quick. He made sure that the rolling stretcher was secure, and the backboard was strapped on top. Four sets of white sheets were contained in a small case mounted behind the left wheel hub. A few black body bags were in a matching colored case on the right. A small net bag holding straps of various sizes was shoved into a corner.
Closing the left door, Brice began to close the right. As he did, the sound of a car slamming on its breaks caught his attention. Turning, Brice looked towards the road. He could hear a motor running. But could not see the car on the other side of the chain-link fence as it was hidden by tall shrubs that edged the side of the building. The driver of the car let out a series of four letter words in a thick Polish accent. Then the car screamed through the intersection at the front of the building.
Securing the doors, Brice walked back to the driver side and tossed the clipboard on the seat. Hitting the lock button on the fob, he pushed the door closed. The locks engaged as he put the keys to van one in a front pocket. He then held the fob for van two over the windshield of van one, and pressed the unlock button.
The locks popped open, and he started around van one to begin the checklist for van two. Opening the door, he pulled the clipboard from the same place as the other clipboard had been.
Absorbed in paperwork, Brice tapped the pen against the side of the clipboard as he walked to the back. When suddenly, he walked into a wall of flesh. The clipboard bounced up into his face, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Adjusting his glasses, he said, “Excuse me.”
Then the smell hit him. An overpowering scent of shit and gasoline, filled his nostrils, coating his throat, making him gag.
A deep red gash of congealed blood piled around a large jagged shard of glass that had punctured the face of a man standing before him. Numerous ragged holes checkered the work shirt that he wore. While over half a dozen pieces of glass and nails, sprouted from the man’s left arm.
Taken back by the man’s appearance. Brice said, “Holy crap dude, what happened to you?”
Not saying a word, the injured man just stood there staring blankly at him.
Not frightened, Brice tossed the clipboard back onto the driver seat. He had seen worse injuries over the last two years working in the family business. It just wasn’t common for anyone this hurt to be standing.
“How’d you get in the gate?” Brice asked, taking the injured man’s wrist.
As if handling a child, Brice lead the man towards the back of the van, and the first aid box therein.
“You need to sit down,” Brice said, opening the right door. He guided the man to sit down on the bumper. “Have the police been called? Is anyone else hurt?”
Not sure if there was a construction site nearby. Brice knew that if this man was hurt this bad. Others had to be as well.
In the distance the sound of police sirens rose. Glancing back towards the road, Brice said, “Here comes the cavalry.”
He watched the road expecting the coming police to stop. A cruiser with lights flashing appeared. Instead of stopping, the cruiser barreled down the street disappearing through the intersection out front.
“Crap,” Brice said, as the sirens faded.
Pulling his cellphone from a back pocket, he turned back to the injured man. “I’ll call a ambulance.”
Pressing 911, he put the phone to his ear. The line connected and started to ring. Turning back, he saw that the injured man was no longer sitting on the bumper.
A heavy arm, filled with nails and glass, plowed into Brice. Striking him along the side of his head. Knocked from his hand, the phone hit the blacktop and skittered underneath van one stopping behind the rear tire. Pain lanced through Brice’s ear as the man tried to wrap a hand around his neck. Ducking, Brice back stepped out of his reach.
“What the hell dude? I’m trying to help.” Brice yelled, realizing that the man didn’t want help as much as he wanted to inflict the pain that he was feeling.
Taking a heavy step forward, the injured man’s blood-stained hand came down on Brice’s shoulder. Snagging the collar of his lab coat and driving him down to his knees. Jaws snapping, the injured man thrust his face down.
Instinctively Brice held up an arm to block the man’s bite. Teeth locked down on the sleeve of the lab coat sliding off his forearm. Twisting from side to side, the man acted like an animal trying to render its prey to pieces.
Flung like a ragdoll, Brice tried his best to get out of his lab coat. Twisting, he pulled one arm free. But was suddenly jerked back before he could pull the other out. A sharp burning sensation sliced through the tendons surrounding his elbow and up through his bicep.
Before the injured man realized that he no longer had hold of him. Brice rose to his feet and grabbed the back door of the van. With all his might, he swung the door closed slamming it into the injured man’s arm driving glass and nails in further.
Unsteady on his feet, the injured man swayed, almost toppling over.
Dropping the lab coat, the injured man reached for Brice again. As he stepped forward, Brice backed out of arms reach. The lab coat tangled in his feet making him stumble against the black hearse in the next stall.
Rushing between the hearse and van. Brice saw that both vehicles were parked to close to the chain-link fence for him to get around. Grabbing the handle of the van’s passenger door, he pulled it open and started to climb across the seats.
A strong hand came down on his ankle, gripping it tight. Kicking hard to be free. Brice felt his shoe come off, and fly across the hood of the hearse to the blacktop on the other side.
Unwilling to let go the injured man climb in. Brice kicked the man in the abdomen. As his foot sunk into soft belly, bits of glass cut through his sock into his heel.
With both fists, Brice began to pummel the injured man’s face and shoulders. Every blow seemed to have no effect. Blood welled from the man’s nose as bits of the glass broke away. Quickly, Brice could not tell if the blood he saw was from the injuries the man had received, or his own as the glass sliced his fists.
Grunting, the injured man pulled himself further into the van. With a hearty grunt of his own, Brice slammed both feet squarely down on the man’s hips. Putting all his weight into one hard shove.
The injured man’s head bounced off the roof of the van. Glass cut deep, spraying Brice with blood. Pulling his right foot up. Brice wedged it against the man’s chest. With everything he could muster, he pushed the man out of the van. With a wet thud, the injured man struck the side of the hearse.
Before the man could regain his footing, Brice grabbed the steering wheel, and reached for the handle of the driver side door. Hands slipping on his first try. Brice popped the door open on the second and slipped backwards out of the van. The door took the brunt of the fall as he slid against it.
Catching his right arm in the seatbelt, he landed on the blacktop, bruising his hip. Panting, Brice looked under the van expecting to see the injured man lying on the blacktop. But he was nowhere to be seen. Only a puddle of glass and blood remained.
Grabbing hold of the seatbelt, Brice pulled himself up. When the injured man suddenly appeared over the driver’s seat. Bloody spittle flew from his lips as he snapped at the air. Brice felt droplets fall onto his face. Splashing into his eyes, making him realize that he had lost his glasses somewhere along the way.
Brice kicked the man in the face. Not stopped by the blows, the injured man reached down. Trying to grab any part of Brice that he could.
As hard as he could Brice swung the door closed. The heavy door made contact with the injured man’s head driving it against the framework. The large shard of glass that crossed h
is face snapped in two as it was driven deeper into his skull. The knife-like pieces sliced into his brain, killing him instantly.
To be sure his attacker was out, Brice slammed the door again.
Pain raced up his injured arm. He could feel blood pulsing across his wrist, and his elbow felt as if it were swelling to the size of a grapefruit.
Gasping, Brice used the side of van one to struggled to his feet. Holding his injured arm to his chest, he moved the length of the van. Stopping at the bumper. He used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the bloody spittle from his face. As he did, his vision blurred. He could feel gunk building in the corners of his eyes. It burned, and every time he blinked, his eyelids felt as if they were gumming up. Tears started to run down his face as his body tried its best to clear his eyes from the foreign invader.
Using the side of his hand, he rubbed the corner of his eyes harder. Trying to work out the nasty bits. But it did not good, as the spittle worked its way deeper into his capillaries.
“God!” He gasped, his vision darkening around the edges.
Knowing that he needed help, Brice started toward the loading dock. The space of a half dozen yards, now seemed to be the length of a football field. A shuddering breath escaped his lungs as his nerves caught fire. Sweat started to pump from his body as his temperature grew by the second.
Reaching the dumpster, Brice bumped against the hard, green painted, metal. Fatigue enveloped him, making every step an effort. With an arm feeling like lead weight, he reached for the iron railing only a few feet away.
His fingertips touched the railing as the world suddenly tilted. Unbalanced, Brice collapsed with the next step. Falling between the dumpster and ramp, he struck his head against the blacktop. Knocking himself out, as the virus worked its way into his bloodstream. With every second the virus replicated itself. Eating away at the living cells, taking him into a new plane of existence.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Raymond briskly walked down the carpeted hallway. To the right stood a large showroom set with the latest in coffin and burial supplies to fit every family budget. On the left, the sound of a printer rapidly pushing out sheet after sheet reached his ears as he passed the open door to the copy room. Unaware of his presence, Judy Peaks, a sales associate, stood dutifully compiling all the forms to keep this successful business up and running.
Chicago Undead (Books 3-4): Encounters Page 3
