by Simon Wood
Mack stared at his partial cadaver. He studied what he had been sent and the spaces where something should have been. There was no point speculating. It was all too ridiculous.
“In six days, we’ll have everything, a complete stiff,” Mack said.
Kempton mulled and nodded.
“What are we going to do in the meantime? What’s the plan? Wait?”
“I don’t see what else we can do,” Harker admitted. “We’ve exhausted all our avenues of enquiry. Nothing’s coming out of Russia. By the time anyone gets close to finding out, we’ll have all the body parts. And the way things are going, there’s not going to be a note.
“Because the body is the note,” Mack remarked.
“Right, and we just haven’t understood what they’re saying. Whoever’s doing this is using technology way beyond us. The best we can hope for is that the heads will tell us something.”
“And I bet that’ll be the last piece to be delivered,” Mack said.
***
Mack was right. The head was the last piece to be delivered. This time, when he strolled into the morgue like he had every day with a new addition, he was surprised to find he had an audience. In addition to Kempton and Harker, the Secret Intelligent Service’s top brass was there.
“Mack, we’ve been waiting for you,” Harker said.
“Do you recognize our friend in the box?” Control asked.
“I don’t. Maybe you will.”
Mack removed the head from the box and held it by the hair. Everybody examined the face of a man around thirty. Mack had done the courtesy of closing the man’s eyes. He had found the sight too disturbing when he had first removed the head over breakfast.
“I’ve got one just like it.” Jack Davenport entered the morgue with a box in his arms. “Exactly like it.”
“A clone then?” Control asked.
“Looks like it, C,” Harker replied.
“Shall we try them on for size?” Control suggested.
“What about Jerry’s head?” Mack asked.
“On its way,” Harker replied. “Shall we wait, C?”
“I don’t think so.”
Kempton instructed Mack and Davenport which head went on which shoulders. They completed the jigsaws.
Mack felt no elation or sympathy. There was nothing to feel. They hadn’t succeeded in discovering what the corpses meant. They were no further forward than when he had called the dinosaur line.
No one said anything. The cream of British intelligence stood and stared, a waste of taxpayers’ money.
“Suggestions, anyone?” Control asked.
He received a reply from the unlikeliest of sources—the corpses.
The heads trembled, vibrating on the stainless steel table. Then the eyes snapped open. Blue-red tendrils flicked out from the necks and blindly searched for something. The tendrils found their prey, the torso’s neck stump. Tendrils extruded from the heads and infested the torsos. When they quenched their hunger, the tendrils contracted and the heads were drawn onto the shoulders. Flesh liquefied, sealing the heads to the bodies. A chain reaction proceeded. Tendrils writhed from shoulders and leg sockets and bonded the arms and legs to the body, then continued with the hands and feet.
Mack didn’t have to be a scientist to know when he was being fucked. He’d been set up. All the old boys had. He was too old and set in his ways to see it coming. He thought in the old ways, the dinosaur ways. They were right to label him as prehistoric. He’d brought the enemy into the castle.
Kempton rushed forward to restrain one of the patchwork men. It countered the pathologist’s move. It sat up, caught Kempton’s flailing arms, spun him around and snapped his neck.
The second creature hopped off the table. He shouted Russian at the assembled crowd.
Mack drew his Beretta and shot the creature discarding Kempton’s slack form. The bullets did nothing. They were nothing more than an irritation. He tried a headshot. It produced the desired effect, blowing its brains out, but not killing it. Spurred on by the shooting, the creature launched itself at Control. Harker and others fought to stop the creature. The head of military intelligence was dead before he hit the ground.
Davenport snatched up a surgical tray covered with instruments and smashed it over the second creature’s head, sending the implements flying. The creature felled Davenport with a single blow to the throat.
Mack doubted there was any way to kill these creatures. But they had to try. There had to be a way. Nothing was invincible. Everything had an Achilles heel. Being human was his. He fired a round into Davenport’s killer. The bullet pierced its heart and should have killed it instantly. But it didn’t. The creature turned on Mack, snatching him by the throat.
The creature spat Russian in his face. Mack understood every word. “The once deposed communist authorities are now in control. We represent the new regime. The West will be destroyed. You can’t stop the inevitable.”
Mack pumped bullet after bullet in the KGB’s super soldier. The naked soldier flinched but did not falter. He squeezed Mack’s throat to breaking point. And squeezed. And squeezed.
THE HOARDER
Dr. Birnbaum parked his Mercedes. He didn’t have to check the address to know which house he was supposed to visit. The front yard landscaped with split trash bags and overrun with weeds told him this was the house.
The consultation was a favor to a friend in Social Services who wanted the situation resolved. As Birnbaum approached the house, he checked his notes on the clipboard. Charlene Casey, thirty-eight, separated, mother to Marcy, eleven, was technically a hoarder—someone who couldn’t bear to throw anything away.
Birnbaum had dealt with several cases before, but his friend told him to prepare for his worst case ever. Having to use all his weight on the gate to push aside the rotting trash just to gain entry to the front yard gave him fair warning.
Birnbaum’s previous experience taught him to hold an aftershave-scented handkerchief to his nose to help filter out the sickly-sweet stench. He was glad to be called in early spring. He couldn’t imagine the smell in high summer. No wonder the neighbors wanted Charlene out.
All in all, it didn’t bode well for the interior of the house.
He rang the doorbell, and while he waited, he surveyed the neighborhood. He noted the “For Sale” signs dotted up and down the street. He didn’t hold out much hope for the sellers.
He heard shuffling and put the handkerchief away. The door opened a crack. A sliver of face eyed him. “Yes?”
“Charlene Casey?” He smiled. “Dr. Joseph Birnbaum. We spoke on the phone.”
“Yes.”
“Can I come in?”
She hesitated before opening the door. Birnbaum stepped carefully into the hallway strewn with untidy piles of…of…crap. Heaps of old newspapers lay slumped like sleeping down and outs. Fast food containers were carefully placed inside one another then dropped anywhere there was space. From his vantage point, the hallway was the tidiest part of the house—he was only knee deep in filth.
“Do excuse the mess,” she said.
Reflexively, he almost laughed. “Is there somewhere we can talk?” Birnbaum said.
Charlene nodded. The psychologist followed the obese woman through the house, her oversized housedress catching on any trash with a sharp corner. He had to sidestep plump Hefty bags with every step.
Something rancid from a pizza box wiped itself against his trouser leg. His friend at Social Services had warned him to wear an environmental suit, but that didn’t have the makings of a constructive session. So, he wore clothes that wouldn’t upset him too much if they got spoiled.
“Okay?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. Fine,” he replied and followed her into her bedroom.
The bedroom was no different from the rest of the house. More manufacturers’ packaging from a disposable world filled the room. Rubbish came flush with the top of the bed. He caught a scurrying to his right and hoped it wasn’t a rat. Tryin
g not to show his revulsion, he let his professionalism take over.
Charlene clambered onto her bed. There was nowhere he could sit. Or wanted to.
“There’s a chair over there.” She pointed at an overwhelming mountain of refuse that climbed the corner walls.
“No, I prefer to stand.”
She made herself comfortable. She removed a Whopper box and added the finishing touch to a hillock of other Burger King cartons.
“I have some details from Social Services, but I would like to know why you think I’m here?”
She looked at him like he had asked the dumbest question in the world. Which he had. But he had to know whether she was aware of her own circumstances. A patient who understood her problem was a step closer to solving it. You can’t fix it if you don’t know it’s broke.
“Dr. Birnbaum, isn’t it obvious?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.” He smiled.
Charlene tried to smile back, but failed. She surveyed her room, taking in the accumulated waste and broke into sobs.
“Why are you crying, Charlene?”
She sniffed back the tears and pointed at the trash. “Because of this. Look at it, it’s all junk.”
“If it’s junk, why keep it?”
“Because I can’t do without it.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s mine.”
“But it’s no good to you. It’s served its purpose.”
“I don’t want to lose it.”
“Lose what?”
“This!” Charlene scooped up a handful of trash and let it tumble back into the mix. “It’s mine. Don’t you understand?”
“Frankly, no.” He picked up an empty mouthwash bottle. Condensation clung to the inside and mold grew in clumps. “This is finished with. Me, I’d throw it away.”
Birnbaum turned to leave and find a trashcan.
“You can’t!” Charlene shrieked. “Please put it back.”
“Okay.” He returned it to the pile. “You tell me that this is unacceptable. But you’re not willing to do anything to remedy the situation. How can we cure this?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do.”
“I don’t.”
“Your neighbors want you removed. But I know we can do something to rectify things. And I think you know, too. What can we do? What is it you can do?”
“Take the trash out?”
“That’s great, Charlene. Let’s start doing it now. I’ve got a cell phone.” Birnbaum unclipped his Nokia and prepared to tap in a number. “I’ll call the sanitary department. They can have a dozen guys here in fifteen minutes. Hey, in a couple hours I bet we can have this place spick-and-span. What do you say, Charlene?”
But she was already shaking her head.
“Why, Charlene? Make me understand.”
“I don’t want to lose this.” She retrieved the mouthwash bottle Birnbaum had been holding and hugged it tight, like it was a baby.
“I don’t know what we’re going to do, Charlene, I really don’t.”
“You see, doctor. I’ve lost so much since Tony. I don’t want to lose any more.”
The three-year-old had succumbed to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome eighteen months ago. Charlene’s hoarding began shortly after. The combination of her son’s death and her obsession forced her husband into therapy. Separation was inevitable when Charlene wouldn’t help herself. Divorce was on the way and so was a messy custody battle for Marcy.
“During the course of our lives, we lose things and people, regardless of how important they are to us. That’s nature. You can’t stop it, Charlene.” He paused. “You realize that if this situation continues you will lose the house.”
“I don’t care about the house.”
“But you care about your daughter.”
“They can’t take Marcy.”
“They can.”
“She’s my daughter.”
“The state has a responsibility to the community and to your child’s welfare. I think we both know this isn’t a healthy environment to bring up a kid in, Charlene.”
Charlene buried her head in her plump hands and cried again. As her sobs rocked her body, he noticed matter in her greasy hair. It was a pitiful sight and being witness to it brought no satisfaction. They needed a natural break and one presented itself.
“Mom, I’m home,” a voice called from the hallway.
“In here,” Charlene called back, in a mucus-clogged voice.
An apprehensive pre-teen stood in the bedroom doorway, eyeing Birnbaum. He was taken aback by the child. She was immaculately turned out in her school uniform and didn’t harbor any of her mother’s traits. He imagined that Marcy had grown up quick in this environment. Looking after herself had become a priority.
“It’s okay, baby,” Charlene reassured. “This is Dr. Birnbaum, he’s here to help us.”
Marcy joined her mother on the bed. Birnbaum was amazed by the child’s ability. Unlike him, she stepped confidently and without trepidation, not once tripping over the trash filling the room. She knew every square inch of the mess, like someone with a map to a minefield.
Charlene wrapped an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. Marcy looked lovingly at her mother. Regardless of the environment, the child was happy. Not everybody could say that—even in the cleanest of homes.
“Charlene, I wonder if I could have a couple of minutes with Marcy?”
She nodded.
“Charlene, I want you to do something for me while I’m with Marcy. Think about what you want to do and how you want me to help you. I’m your therapist, but I can’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do. It’s entirely up to you.”
“Okay.”
“Good. Marcy, do you want to show me your room?”
Marcy hopped off the bed and expertly cut a trail through the refuse. Sadly, the girl’s room was no better than the rest of the house. The room was filled with every disposable item an eleven-year-old would generate. Boxes for every present she had ever received towered precariously. Packaging for all her clothes littered the floor. Receipts for the items in the room bulged from a cigar box. Charlene’s sickness had infected her daughter, too.
Or so it looked to the casual observer. At second glance, Marcy wasn’t her mother’s daughter. Plastic storage containers, filled with toys and cherished possessions, formed a wall around her bed. Between her bed and the containers was a no-man’s land, a foot wide where a scrap of filth couldn’t be seen. Whether Marcy was aware or not, she had drawn a line between where Charlene finished and Marcy began. It was a comforting sight.
He joined Marcy on the bed. “Do you know why I’m here, Marcy?”
She nodded.
“Good. I just want to ask a couple of questions.”
“You won’t take mom away, will you?” The outburst was dread-filled.
“No. I’m not here for that.” He smiled.
She wasn’t convinced.
“I want to know what you think about your mother’s habits. Some people would say that this lifestyle is unhealthy.” Birnbaum pointed at the trash mountains. “What would you say?”
“I don’t know. But it makes mom happy.”
“Don’t you think it would make your mom happier if all this wasn’t here?”
“Maybe.”
“I think it would. I think your mom is very unhappy and I don’t think this helps. And, I think with our help we can make her very happy. Will you help me?”
Her gaze bore into him. She read him as easily as a comic book. She smiled. “Yes.”
Birnbaum smiled back. He had an ally. Marcy was strong and Charlene would latch onto that. “Let’s see how your mom is getting on.”
Charlene beamed when Marcy leapt into her arms.
“So, Charlene, what’s it to be?”
“I want you to help me,” she said without any hesitation.
“Fantastic. I want to start now.”
Charlene’s smile falte
red. “You’re not going to call the sanitary department, are you?”
“Not unless you want me to.”
“No.”
“Well, I have some exercises we can start to get the ball rolling. Hold on one second.” He ran out to his car and returned with three file boxes. “Right, I was hoping we could get started today. So, I prepared these boxes.”
On each box Birnbaum had written, in magic marker—Things I can’t do without, Things I could do without and Things I don’t need.
“It’s simple. What we do is sort everything into these categories. We fill the boxes with those items that apply.”
“So, we don’t have to throw anything out?” Charlene said hopefully.
“No. Anything we don’t need, we throw out.”
Charlene looked doubtful.
“Then we look at the Things I could do without and see whether we can transfer any to the Things I don’t need box. I think you can see where this is going.”
Charlene nodded.
“We are going to do this for everything in the house. How’s that sound?”
“We’re going to need bigger boxes,” Marcy giggled.
“Then I’ll get bigger boxes. Where do we want to start?”
Charlene wasn’t making any suggestions.
“I’ll tell you what. Let’s do a survey and find a room we can take a bite out of. How’s that sound?”
It took five minutes of cajoling to coerce Charlene into checking out the bathroom. It had to be examined from the hallway. Plastic sacks filled the tub to ceiling level and consumed most of the floor space.
“What’s in the bags?”
Charlene couldn’t respond and his stomach tightened. Marcy supplied the answer, albeit ashamed.
“Used toilet paper.”
Birnbaum sighed. He didn’t have the words.
“I’m disgusting.”
“No, you’re not, mom.”
“Charlene, you just need help and you’re getting it.”
Charlene edged her way into the bathroom and tried to cover up something on the wall.
“What’s that?”
Charlene stood aside. She exposed a collection of used and bloodstained Band-Aids stuck to the wall with the remaining adhesive.
