Following the copy room were three offices for the sales staff. At the end of the hall was the closed door to Mr. Briggs office. Crafted of mahogany, and polished to a stunning sheen, the door gave off a somber feeling.
As he reached for the gold door knob, Raymond heard Mr. Briggs talking nervously on the phone. He couldn’t make out what was being said. But the tone of his employer’s voice filled him with concern.
As with Mr. Briggs open door policy, Raymond knocked, then let himself in.
With both elbows resting on the placemat in front of himself, Mr. Briggs sat at his desk. Dangling from a pinky, he held his copper colored wire framed glasses. While he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger as if to fight off a headache. In the other hand, he pressed the phone to his ear.
“And you’re sure?” Mr. Briggs replied into the mouth piece.
Noticing Raymond, he let go of his nose and held a finger up. Letting Raymond know that he would be with him
directly.
Mr. Briggs listened intently to the voice on the other end of the line. After a long moment, he answered, “Yes, we will send both vans immediately.” Then hung up.
Dropping his glasses to the desk. Mr. Briggs put his face in the palm of his hands and sat there for a moment. Through his fingers, he said in a stressed voice, “Raymond, what can I do for you?”
“A Doctor Cass called from Mercy Hospital.”
“Yes,” Mr. Briggs ran his hand through his hair, giving a nod towards the phone. “That was them.”
“So, you know what’s happening?”
“They’ve got one hell of a mess on their hands.”
“I told Brice to get the vans prepared.”
Standing, Mr. Briggs stepped around the desk. “Tell him to cremate the bodies as soon as they get back.”
“Cremate?” Raymond replied with concern, as Mr. Briggs opened the door and motioned for Raymond to step back into the hall. “What about notifying the families of the deceased?”
Closing the door, Mr. Briggs paused for a moment. Then together they started down the hall. Glancing to his right, Mr. Briggs saw the newest sales intern, Ashley Rice, sitting at his desk. Busily typing on his computer.
Looking up from the screen, Ashley gave a pleasant smile. Mr. Briggs gave a curt nod in return. Taking one step in, he grabbed the door knob and closed the door, so Ashley could not hear the conversation.
“According to Mercy there has been a rash of deaths,” Mr. Briggs said in a voice that wouldn’t carry down the hall.
Raymond nodded, “Yes, Doctor Cass said that there was quite a few.”
“A few isn’t the term I would use.”
Eyebrows scrunching, Raymond asked, “How many?”
“A hundred and that’s just at Mercy.”
Stunned, Raymond repeated, “One hundred?”
“And growing.”
“Is it a terrorist attack?”
“No.”
“I haven’t heard anything about a pile up on I-90. So, what could be causing such death?”
“They wouldn’t go into detail. But quite a few looked to have been bitten.”
“Animal attack? Did a lion escape the Brookfield Zoo?”
“We could only be so lucky?”
“Then what? A pack of dogs couldn’t injure a hundred people!”
Mr. Briggs looked down the hall as the sound of the copier stopped. He waited a moment and when Judy did not appear, he stepped closer to Raymond. “They said the bites looked human.”
“Human?” Raymond quickly hushed himself as he realized that he had said the word too loudly.
From the stairs at the end of the hall, Samantha’s voice rose as he leads the students up. “And this is the heart of the funeral home. On the left is the business offices, and the right is our showroom. If everyone would please go in through the first door.”
Noticing Raymond and Mr. Briggs, she said, “Everyone, I’d like you all to meet Mr. Briggs, owner of our little funeral home. And Mr. Raymond Taylor. Who you all will get a chance to speak with when we head downstairs to see the embalming room.”
On command Mr. Briggs face lit up as he stepped away from Raymond. “Good morning everyone. I hope Samantha is answering all of your questions.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Foust said, as the last few students trailed up the stairs. “She’s been doing quite well.”
“Good, good,” Mr. Briggs replied, “Don’t let me keep you. Samantha, please continue.”
Smiling, Samantha waved a hand towards the showroom, and started back into her practiced speech. “The need for funeral services differs for everyone.”
Mr. Briggs smile dropped as the student’s attention was drawn back to the tour.
“So, what do we do? It will be impossible to cremate them all in a timely manner.” Raymond said quietly, as Mr. Briggs came back.
“This is not the place to talk. Let’s go back to my office.”
“No, I left Mrs. Wilkens in the elevator. I need to get her into the preparation room before our guests accidentally stumble across her.”
“I’ll go down with you,” Mr. Briggs said, as they started for the elevator. Glancing over his shoulder, he considered whether to hurry the tour along, or let it run its normal course.
“Should we try to move back Mrs. Wilkens funeral?” Raymond asked, pressing the down button.
“No,” Mr. Briggs replied, as the elevator hummed as it moved between floors. “We keep business as usual.”
The bell rang and both men stepped in before the door slid open fully. Skirting the gurney, Mr. Briggs pushed the button for the first floor. “I will tend to the business up front. While you take care of the business in back.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
A girl’s laugh brings me around. Happy and full of life, the voice cuts off as a murmur of at least six others rise. Near my head, I hear a firm female voice filled with authority. “Please be quiet Miss Larou. Boys listen.”
The voices lower and I can hear feet shifting nervously.
As I come out of the cloud of blackness I realize that the bees had finally left my brain. I try to call out. Even though my tongue no longer feels like a slab of meat in my mouth. I still get nothing.
“Students this is Mr. Briggs. He works here as a…”
“Mortuary Science Technician is the technical title.” I hear Bob reply. “Basically, I’m a glorified gopher.”
“Oh Mr. Briggs, I am sure that you are more than that. Please, fill the class in with what you do on a daily basis.” The warm female voice says.
“Umm…,” Bob pats my leg a few times. “Alright, my name is Bob Briggs and I am a Mortuary Science Technician here at the Briggs and Sons Funeral Home. I do everything that needs to be done. From picking up our guests, to assisting Mr. Taylor in preparing them for the next step on their journey to what comes next.”
The girl, I heard laughing asks, “Is he dead?”
“Mr. Doe here,” Bob replies. “Yes, he is.”
“Can we see?” A boy asks in a husky voice.
The rest of the group raises their voices. Some in agreement, others not so much. I, on the other hand, want them to open the bag and let me out.
“Settle down everybody,” the authoritative female voice says, and everyone obeys.
A still hopeful voice says, “Come on, let us see.”
Bob takes his hand off my leg. “I’m sorry. But Mr. Doe here is not in any condition for viewing.”
“Was he in an accident or something?” The boy questions, “Is he mangled?”
“Mr. Windsor that’s enough.”
“Sorry Mr. Foust,” The Windsor boy replies, when a spasm suddenly hits my still body and my leg jerks.
I hear a few girls scream, as well as a few of the boys.
“What the hell?” Yells one.
“He’s alive,” says another.
I feel Bob’s hand come down firmly on my leg. Holding it tight, in case it spasms again. “Calm down, c
alm down. It was just a muscle spasm. That does not happen often. But it does happen now and then, until rigor mortis sets in. I assure you, Mr. Doe here has passed on.”
‘I’M NOT DEAD!’ I scream, trying to repeat my leg movement.
“Their trying to pull a joke on us,” a girl says, her voice shaking. “Dead people don’t get up and move around. That’s only in movies.”
“Oooh yeah, Night of the Living Dead.” A boy says. I hear shuffling feet. Then, “Their coming to get you Barbra.”
The girl screams and the group starts to laugh.
“People cut it,” Ms. Foust says sternly, immediately the crowd settles.
“Actually, it was thought that many dead have risen before. Zombies come from the Haitian religion of Voodoo. Vampires in Romania. I could go on and on. As a body starts to decompose, muscles relax, and joints move after rigor mortis leaves the body. The bowels relax, and the stomach gives up, expelling gas.”
A girl cuts in, “Gross, they burp.”
“Yeah, and they shit themselves.” A boy jokingly adds.
“Mr. Tare, one more out of line remark, and you will spend the rest of the tour on the bus.” Ms. Foust says, angrily.
“Sorry,” the boy replies, as if he were a scolded five-year-old.
“Now where was I,” Bob continues. “Oh yes, the skin shrinks, and if one were clean shaven. They would now have stubble, and their nails would seem a bit longer.”
I hear a door swing open, and Bob stops talking.
“Ms. Foust sorry to interrupt. But a call has come in for Mr. Briggs. If you all will join Jenifer out in the hall. She will escort you to the next part of your tour.” A woman says. Her voice all business, but laced with kindness.
All the kids file out. I hear Ms. Foust say thank you to Bob and the door closes behind her.
“What’s the emergency, Samantha?” Bob asks.
“We’ve got a pick up.”
“Send Robin.”
“No can do. He’s delivering Mr. White to his service in Iowa. He won’t be back until tomorrow.”
“Well, send somebody else. I got a John Doe to process.”
“You’re not going alone. John and Brice are going with you.”
“Why?”
“Mercy Hospital called. Their morgue is full. They need us to take the overflow until next of kin can be notified.”
“What happened?” Bob asks, as they step out of the room, and the door swings shut behind them.
Now alone, fear starts to rise. I need to move. To get up, and continue living. I can’t be here. I’m in the prime of life for Christs sake.
The buzzing rises again. I can feel the bees crawling over my brain. Digging into every nook and cranny.
I scream until my throat feels raw. No sound comes out as I fade into a white light.
CHAPTER NINE
Coming around, I see nothing. Still locked in the black bag. I feel someone touch my chest. Not a heavy press from the flat of a hand. But a sharp jab of a finger. Muffled laughter floats through the thick plastic.
“Do it,” I recognize the male voice from earlier. “You’re not scared, are you?”
“No,” came a quick reply in a nervous female voice.
I feel a hand come down on my forehead. Its shaky, as if touching me was a repulsive thing to do. Another hand moves across my face.
“Go on, do it!” The boy urges, as I hear the jingle of the zipper.
The zipper moves down my face, and I’m blinded from the glare of florescent lights overhead. I need to close my eyes to relieve the sharp pain. But they won’t move.
Leaning over me, a girl says, “Oh my God! Look at his eyes!”
My vision is fuzzy around the edges as I focus on her round face, framed by long, dyed black, hair with just a smidge of blonde showing at the roots. Bangs reach down, stopping just above her eyes. While the rest is pinned up just over her left ear, studded three times with tiny gold crosses.
I can see that she’s wearing light purple lipstick. Her eyes lined with a thick layer of mascara. Not quite to the raccoon stage, but close.
“What? Is he tore up?” The boy asks.
The girl steps back and a husky teen comes into view. His head is full of short, light brown, curly hair. Peach fuzz speckles his jawline. “Damn, his eyes are white. What could do that to them?”
The girl pushes into my view again. “I don’t know. There kinda cool looking.”
“You should close ’em. You know, respect for the dead and all that.”
“I ain’t touching him,” she shoots back.
Her breath falls on my face. I can smell the musky perfume she’s wearing, and my mouth begins to water. Suddenly I’m hungry. Not the stomach rumbling, I got the munchies hungry. But the one you get when you smell ribs cooking on the grill.
“Open the bag all the way. Let’s get a good look at ’em.” The boy says.
The girl takes hold of the zipper, and hesitates. Her face is no more than a foot away from mine. I cannot help it. I have the urge to reach up and taste her. Not in some kind of lusty lip lock. But to take a chunk right off her face and chew.
I don’t know what the hell is happening. I’m no monster. No zombie like in the movies. I’m just a poor sucker stuck in a situation that I can’t get out of.
I try to move. Blink an eye, lift an arm, kick my leg. I feel a twitch of a nerve in my neck. My head moves. Not up, instead it flops to the side.
The girl screams as she steps back into the boy. Letting out a barking laugh, he grabs her by the shoulders to keep them both from falling to the floor.
“Holy crap,” she says.
With my face half covered by the bag. I watch them. I can feel my joints loosening. Air enters my throat. My tongue moves. No longer sitting like a slab of meat.
The girl looks at the door behind them as if she hears approaching footsteps. I can see that the boy is wearing a letterman’s jacket, and he keeps his hand firmly placed on the girls shoulders as if he doesn’t want to let go.
Realizing that he’s still holding her. She pushes him away, and says, “Someone’s coming.”
“Crap, we’ll get detentions if were caught. Come on.” He takes the girls hand, and leads her towards the door that I had been brought through when I arrived.
He pushes the door open and peeks through. Seeing that the coast is clear. He steps into a hallway, pulling the girl along. The door closes behind them, just seconds before the other door opens.
CHAPTER TEN
I watch the door open as a gurney is pushed into the room by a balding man wearing a knee length, starched white, lab coat. A pair of thick, black plastic, horn rimmed glasses sits on a round nose. A grim look is set on his face, and I can see a tenseness in the stiff way his body moves. He pushes the gurney against the wall closest to the door. Without giving me a second glance, he promptly leaves.
The door closes. Then reopens just enough for the man to reach a hand through and flip off the lights. As the lights go out. A thin shaft of light spills from a rectangular window set high in the wall behind me.
I can see the outline of the body under the sheet on the gurney. I feel the hunger start to grow again. My stomach doesn’t growl. But I need nourishment. Like a diabetic with dropping blood sugar. I need something to lift me up, and keep me moving.
Then I hear it. A low guttural moan. The sound isn’t coming from the hallway behind me, or the stiff on the gurney. It’s coming from only one place… Me.
I don’t feel myself breathing. Fact is, I don’t feel anything. Except for the dull chewing of the bees at the base of my brain.
I know the clock is ticking, and it won’t be long until they come to take me to the furnace.
God what happened! How did I end up here? I’ve got to get up. That’s the only way I can survive. The only way I can show everyone that I’m not gone. I’m just trapped inside my own body.
Starring at the body on the gurney. I feel the need to get up, and taste the flesh o
f whoever is under that sheet. Before I realize what I am doing, I sit up. My head is tilted to the side. But I’m upright, and that’s a start.
My hands come up. Numb fingers push my head into an upright position.
My brain is screaming for me to cross the room. Without putting a thought to it. I swing my legs over the side of the gurney. As I step off, the bag falls from my shoulders to the floor. Unable to hold up my weight, my knees buckle. I drop like a sack of potatoes. My head bouncing off the hard-white tiles.
I let out a huff that warbles around my tongue. I’m sure that I’ve loosened a few teeth. But at least I can move my jaw again.
Pushing myself back to the gurney. I slowly grasp its cold stainless-steel legs. As best I can, I pull myself to my feet. Still wrapped in the bag, I shuffle my feet until I’m standing.
I look up at the light coming down from the window on the wall. Its glow falls on my face, but I can’t feel its warmth. The caress of the sun against my cheeks as foreign as my own body has been since I woke up. I can’t feel anything, except for hunger. And that seems to be what’s motivating me more and more. Driving cohesive thought away. Making it harder to remember who I am.
I look down at the gurney. Polished to a mirror sheen, the top of the gurney reflects my image back at me. At first, I don’t recognize myself. Though I know who it is.
A line of drool runs from the corner of my slack jaw and pools in my reflection, before I can get a numb hand up to wipe it away. Fingers not responding correctly, I slap myself. The thick murky liquid slides over the back of my hand, and continues to run unabated.
Looking closer, I can see that my brown eyes are clouded as if cataracts have taken over. That answers why there is a cottony film in the corners of my vision.
Then I notice that my shirt is ripped, and stained a dark rust brown. Buttons are missing. But my shirt stays partially closed, as it has adhered to my skin.
Chicago Undead (Books 3-4): Encounters Page 4
