Graveyard Shift

Before…

"Damn it!" hissed Jeffrey Adamson as he lost his grip on the long metal trocar he held in his hands. The instrument fell, banging loudly as it bounced off of the bright aluminum embalming table and continued on, clattering against the linoleum floor.

Adamson, who stood just over six feet with a cap of short cropped hair and a dark-humored personality, was the living embodiment of his vocation of Funeral Director. While outwardly stoic and conservatively dressed, he was known by the people in his life as a bit of a contradiction; someone whose tastes ran from micro-brewed beer to the crudest of jokes. His music of choice was death metal. In more ways than one, he was not the person he seemed.

He stood next to the embalming table, dressed in black suit pants with, white shirt with cuffs rolled carefully up around his elbows, tie tucked discreetly between the buttons of his shirt, plastic apron and thick rubber embalming gloves. For almost an hour now, he’d been putting the finishing touches on the late Mrs. Abigail Harvey and fatigue was starting to gnaw at the fringes of his awareness.

The woman lying on the table before him had died (ahem, passed on) as a result of a life-long heart condition. One minute she was standing in her kitchen drinking a cup of coffee and watching "her stories" on TV and the next she was a mound of inert flesh wrapped in a faded housedress. A tremendous weight pressed and twisted deep in her chest and then it all—the dishes that needed to be done in the sink, the laundry waiting to be dried, the machinations of the citizenry of Port Charles—simply winked out. There was no choir of angels singing "Halleluiah" to mark her passing, just a spilled cup of General Foods International Coffee Café Vienna and a soup of urine and feces congealing on the tile floor.

Luckily, the preparatory work for her upcoming service had gone well. The acrid embalming fluid that Jeffrey had pushed through her arterial system via the Sawyer machine had completed its chemical alchemy, preserving her tissues at least long enough to last through her wake and funeral. When she’d died, Mrs. Harvey had fallen face first onto the floor and remained there for as long as it had taken for her to be found and for the Medical Examiner to arrive and assess her cause of death. The dark purple discoloration from post-mortem lividity where her blood pooled had almost completely faded from the side of her puffy face.

After death, blood settled in whatever the lowest point was in the anatomy: the back, feet and hands. Gravity’s laws demanded to be obeyed above all else. Marilyn Monroe died lying flat on her photogenic face and it had been a certified mess by the time the embalmer was able to begin his ministrations. The timely removal of such settling was one of the trickiest parts of the job. If not caught early, the red blood cells would burst, forever staining the surrounding tissues. The condition was called "post-mortem stain" and it was best to clear the circulatory system out as soon as possible in order to achieve the most eye-pleasing results…

…for the family’s sake.

With an exhausted sigh, Adamson squatted down and picked up the trocar. Standing up, he took a moment and checked it for damage or dirt. The instrument was an imposing length of rigid metal with a sharpened point at one end. Three small holes were visible just before the tip of the point. At the other end, a ribbon of rubber hose was attached to the handle. The pale rubber tubing snaked away, its far end plugged into to a delightful little apparatus called a hydro-aspirator which, in turn, was fastened discreetly under the table’s drain. The metal instrument was used to remove any fluids trapped in the abdomino-thoracic cavity of the deceased by the use of the vacuum created as water ran through the aspirator.

The point of the shining steel shaft was designed to be inserted roughly two inches to the right of and two inches above the navel and pistoned back and forth allowing the vacuum to suck up all of the blood and other fluids from within the cavity.

Insertion point is two inches lateral and two inches superior to the umbilicus, perforating the rectus abdominis, he recalled from Embalming class.

Upon completion of this motion, Jeffrey would redirect the tube into the lower abdomen through the same hole in the skin and remove any blood, urine and watery wastes that remained in the lower gastrointestinal tract. Once all of that was done, he would use the same procedures to pour a highly concentrated formaldehyde solution called "cavity fluid" into the same areas in order to preserve the now perforated viscera. The procedure took a little getting used to since it was so similar to repeatedly stabbing someone in the belly, but with enough composure on the part of the embalmer, it soon became just another part of the job.

So much to do…

As he set about taking care of Mrs. Harvey’s internal organs, he silently considered his busy night so far. He’d already embalmed Mr. Lodene and now that he was almost finished with Mrs. Harvey he only had one more case to complete before calling it a night. After that, there was minimal cleanup that needed to be done and then it was all quiet on the Western front until his shift ended.

Adamson enjoyed working the overnight shift at the Howard, Fine and Howard Funeral Home. The place was nice and had over the years developed a solid reputation. The late hours allowed him to work out from underneath the anally retentive eye of his boss, Mr. Marshall Howard, and let him care for the dead in the manner—and with the respect—he felt they deserved. In the past, he’d worked for too many firms that gave little to no care for the amount of consideration afforded to those who had passed on. For many people in this profession, the job was more about making money than any real sense of compassion; more about financial gain than offering any tangible psychological benefit to the bereaved. In some cases, the bodies themselves were tossed about like sides of beef in a slaughterhouse. In fact, many morgue workers often referred to the moving of bodies as "throwin’ meat." This was the kind of sentiment that Jeffrey neither understood nor condoned. It was crucial to Jeffrey that the dead be given their due. Working the late shift allowed him to see that quality care was given to each and every case that came under his watchful eye.

"Jeez," he said aloud, his voice sounding alien in the silence of the room. He checked his watch and raised an eyebrow. "Four hours." He rubbed the back of his wrist across his forehead in an effort to relieve some of the tension there. "I’ve been at this shit for four hours."

He absentmindedly let go of the trocar still inserted deep into the belly of Mrs. Harvey and pulled the latex gloves from his hands with a loud snap. The lance stuck up phallically from her midsection and pointed toward the ceiling.

"Break time," he muttered, unstringing the stays at the back of his plastic apron. He stepped away from the table and pulled the cords from around his neck. The muscles in his back complained silently the moment his arms were raised over his head. As he took an appraising look at his handiwork, he draped the plastic apron across the foot of Mrs. Harvey’s table.

Mrs. Harvey was a big woman with great rolls of flab cascading from her thick frame. Years of overeating with little or no thought ever being given to her health contributed to the stroke. A lifetime of Funyuns and root beer floats were not exactly conducive to longevity.

A doctor had once told Jeffrey as he’d signed off on yet another death certificate, "You never hear the expression big old man or big old lady… It’s always little old man or little old lady." Most folks never seemed to get that.

On the table before him, the woman’s hair laid slick with water against her skull, giving her face a "standing in a high wind" appearance. Her chubby cheeks hung like sacks of water from her face. All in all, it was a look that was not in the least bit flattering.

Adamson turned to the small sink behind him and picked up a bottle of green antibacterial soap. The stuff looked as if it might have smelled of mint, but instead gave off an aroma of old socks and fungus. He washed his hands, first one and then the other, repeating the procedure until he was good and sure they were disinfected. With the amount of bugs and disease he worked with, sanitization was an important aspect of his job. Any embalmer who didn’t think that was so, usually ended up on a metal table himself. After shaking any excess water from his hands, he then dried them and unrolled his shirt’s sleeves. He walked to the door of the room and turned to look back at his workspace, feeling a genuine sense of pride at how well the night’s procedures had turned out.

One more to do.

He looked toward the last case which was a Mr. John J. Robinson, according to the toe-tag wrapped in one of the hospital’s plastic shrouds. The man’s arms crossed his chest, bound by a length of thin twine designed more to keep them in place than for any aesthetic purpose.

Jeffrey figured that after he completed the necessary work on this last guy, he would be free to spend the last few hours at the end of his shift either reading or doing homework for the Business Administration class he was taking at the local city college.

"I’ll be bawk," he said in a put-on Austrian accent as he opened the door and stepped through. As usual, he made sure to close it until he heard the click of the bolt mechanism falling into place.

As he stepped into the dark hallway, Jeffrey heard the phone ringing in the main office. The radio he kept playing during his shift to remind him that there was still a world of activity going on somewhere out there droned on despite no one being there to hear it.

…due to the clear danger to countless people as a result of the situation that is occurring, this station as well as hundreds of others throughout this part of the country will remain on the air and pool their resources through the Emergency Broadcast System to keep you informed of all developments. At this hour, these are the facts as we know them…

Jeffrey rushed across the loading area, which was an open space that had once been a garage. At the far end was set a large roll-up door. The space was used so that employees could have enough room in which to "casket" the prepared bodies for upcoming services. A "ship-out container," which was nothing more than a flat piece of wood covered by a cardboard box designed to protect coffins while shipping them via airline or train, sat with an occupied casket sealed inside.

He quickly walked past and entered the office proper. He snatched up the handset of the phone just before the answering machine clicked on. As he lifted the receiver to his ear, he leaned over and twisted the volume button on the top of the radio to quiet it.

There have been rampant reports of the de—

As the radio fell silent, he subconsciously noted that the clock on the radio read 1:37 A.M.

 "Howard, Fine and Howard Funeral Home. This is Mr. Adamson speaking. May I be of assistance?"

"Jeff!" said the voice from the other end. "This is Marshall…"

"Heya Boss, what’s up?"

"I’m home, buried up to my ears in taxes since I got here. I managed to lock myself in my study with no distractions: no TV, no kids, no wife, no nothin’. Just me and Uncle Sam, all alone with his finger up my ass," and the tinny voice laughed in Jeffrey’s ear. "I just wanted to call and make sure you were doing all right. How are the cases coming?"

"Marshall, you’ve called me every night since I started here a year ago, no matter if there were cases or not. Are we sure there isn’t the word "micro" in front of your title of "manager," Buddy?"

Again the voice on the phone laughed. "Ok… you’re right. I’m mothering you."

"The cases are going great. Mr. Lodene and Mrs. Harvey are pretty much done and I only have Mr. Robinson to do," Jeffrey said, reaching over to switch the coffee on to start a fresh pot. "Now, providing we don’t get any new First Calls, you guys should be OK for the morning."

"Ok, that’s just great. I have some death certificates to get filed in the morning and…"

A loud metallic clatter interrupted the man’s next thought. The sound came from outside the office, somewhere deep inside the funeral home.

"What the hell was that?" asked Marshall.

"I have no idea," Jeff said, leaning back and looking toward the loading area. "I was working with the trocar, maybe it fell from the table. Let me call you back."

"No, don’t. I’m heading to bed in a while. Me and the wife are gonna have some quality time, if you know what I mean. You check it out and leave a shift report on my desk."

"Okay. You give my best to the Mrs."

"I will… right after I give her my best," again he laughed. "Oh, by the way, before we hang up, I need you to look on the Case Board and give me Rabbi Feldman’s telephone number. I need to give him some information first thing in the morning about the Jacob service."

Jeffrey strained, phone cord dragging, until he got to a point in the room where he could see the large, white board where all of the particulars of each case were posted. He scanned the board, found the rabbi’s number, and repeated it into the receiver. After a perfunctory good-bye, he hung up. Taking a quick look at the progress his pot of coffee was making, he made it a point to reach over and turn the radio back up. If there was one thing he hated, it was to feel like he was alone in the silent mortuary. It didn’t matter what the sound was—music, commercials, or even talk radio—but it was important for him to know he wasn’t by himself in this oftentimes creepy place. Given the tricks one’s mind could play on itself, a mortuary was not the place to let it run wild.

Satisfied that everything was ok and going according to plan in the office, he walked back across the loading area to investigate the source of whatever that banging had been. The medicinal smell of bleach coming from the washing machines at one end of the concrete loading area burned his nostrils. Most of the laundry here was blood stained and soiled with all manner of bodily fluids, and everything that got washed was done so in a lot of hot water and chlorine bleach. There was always a basket or two of laundry going. The machines worked at their loads, continually making soft chug-chugging sounds as they swirled the bed linen in their scalding water.

As he stepped through the doorway leading to the funeral home’s main building, he noticed that the door to the Prep Room stood slightly ajar.

I know I shut that…

He reached out to push the door open, but as his fingers touched the painted wood, a sound of heavy movement came from deep within the funeral home. Jeffrey paused, closed his eyes, and bent his head slightly in an effort to concentrate on hearing from where the sound had come.

At first, he thought he’d imagined it and after a minute of silence he was almost sure he had, but as he once again moved to push against the door, he heard it again. It sounded like there was someone slowly moving across the carpeting. It sure as hell wasn’t the sound of anyone moving with any sort of authority, but rather the hesitant steps of a person who was unsure of their surroundings, walking slowly and carefully, but not really caring whether too much noise was made.

I don’t need this shit… not now… not tonight.

Adamson turned from the Prep Room door, looking around for something with which to arm himself. You know… just in case. He’d been warned by the owners again and again that some of the funeral homes in the area had been vandalized and the local police were unable to find the people responsible for the destruction. The culprits, whoever they were, had spray-painted obscenities on the walls, kicked over pews and, in some cases, took out their mindless fury on the helpless dead who passively lay in state. Jeffrey would be damned if he’d allow someone to commit such acts in this mortuary… not on his watch.

He quietly tip-toed back to the loading area and after a short search found a length of metal rebar leaning up against a wall; a left-over from the construction of the newly remodeled office which now stood where the garage and storage shed had once been. Feeling like he was something close to armed, Adamson bolstered his courage, drew a deep breath and walked past the Prep Room and on toward the doorway of the funeral home.

They are so not paying me for this…

The gray carpeted hallway stretched out before him like an empty airport runway with three visitation rooms: two on the left and one on the right. The hallway ended on the far side of the building at the foyer and jogged at an abrupt angle, bending sharply to the right, leading to the building’s entryway and on toward the chapel. Jeffrey stood silent for a moment and intently listened for any further sound of movement. Hearing none, he took three steps forward and, with his heart racing, gently pushed open the first door on his left.

Inside the small room were several low platforms called biers on which caskets were laid during visitations and services, two sets of candles on ornate pedestals, and the wooden Aaron casket the funeral home received the previous day to replace the one in which Mrs. Jacob now lay. Heavy velvet drapery covered the window and the room sat cloaked in a darkness that was almost absolute. At the point where the two drapes met, a single shaft of light came through from the street lamps outside. Its beam fell coldly across the smoothly vacuumed carpet. The room held within it an air of sullen expectancy as if it were placidly waiting for the next group of mourners to come and pour out their grief like warm molasses.

Nothing in here…

Jeffrey closed the door, and as he lifted his foot to take his next step, he heard movement once again. The direction of the sound was still unclear, but that didn’t matter one bit to Jeffrey’s adrenal system. It kicked into overdrive the instant he’d heard that first clattering sound. His heart leapt up into his throat and took up a painful, throbbing residence. A light queasy feeling roiled deep in his bowels. His limbs burned with an almost electric feeling. Fight or flight clawed at the edges of his perception.

He stepped forward, deciding to methodically check each room one by one before venturing deeper into the dark of the building, and reached out to nudge open the door on the right. He pushed against the wood slowly and let it swing open on its own.

Leaning in, he inventoried the interior: couches sat patiently along one side of the room, tawdry landscape paintings littered the walls, as well as the dark oblong shape of a casket which dominated the front. He stepped a little deeper into the room, looking first to one side and then the other. With great care, he circled the room in an attempt to investigate every corner; reveal every nook and cranny. He soon reached the casket in the dark and peered into it, using the sparse light from the doorway to illuminate his vision.

Mrs. Devon lay in her rosewood casket patiently awaiting her service which was scheduled for late the following day. The smell coming from the large number of flower arrangements surrounding her casket bordered on overwhelming. It was an odor so sweet that it threatened to sour Jeffrey’s already turbulent stomach. He turned from the casket and made his way back toward the door and walked through it into the hallway, absentmindedly leaving the door partly ajar.

Ok… two down.

His heart continued to race like an unbridled pony and his belly still felt all tight and oily as he stepped back into the dim hall. The last visitation room in the building lay just ahead and to the left. He lifted up onto his toes like a small child sneaking down the stairs on Christmas morning and tiptoed toward the final door. Jeffrey turned the knob and pushed the door open with his shoulder, just enough so he could stick his head through. The inside of the room lay much like the others: silent, still and quite empty.

Ok, only the chapel left…

He slid his body back between the door and the doorjamb, but as he did so the sound of rustling once again reached his ears. Only this time, he was able to pinpoint exactly where it was coming from—the chapel. He was sure of it now. Since the intruder was not in any of the visitation rooms, the chapel was the only logical answer. With one more quick backward glance into the visitation room to verify its vacancy, he closed the door, gripped the metal rod tighter with both hands, and proceeded across the foyer toward the chapel’s doors.

Jeffrey stepped through the double doors of the chapel, pushing them all the way open with the side of his foot so that they would be held in place by the stops in their hinges. The room was bathed in darkness and lay cloaked in an almost deafening silence. Along one wall, a small garden of fake ferns and foliage sat under a row of softly colored lights recessed beneath an overhang. The pews, quiet and alone, stood in two columns with an aisle running down the middle. His shadow extended long and thin down the aisle, cast as it was by the single lamp’s light which dimly illuminated the foyer.

At the front of the room sat Mrs. Jacob’s Aaron which had been placed upon a bier. It looked quite austere in its simple but elegant setting. All had been prepared and was ready for her morning service which would be presided over by the good Rabbi Feldman. The woman’s body arrived earlier in the afternoon and had gone straight into the casket as prescribed by Jewish tradition: no embalming, no metal to touch the body, casket made without nails to join the pieces of wood together. Once she was tucked inside, the lid was closed and held tight by an intricate mortise and tenon system. Jeffrey quickly scanned the room and to his great relief saw nothing out of the ordinary. He was about to turn and leave when he noticed that the head panel of the casket was slightly ajar, lifted just barely, almost imperceptibly.

Wait a second…

Jeffrey moved up the aisle with a cautious hesitation, scanning the shadows for any sign of either burglar or vandal. He surveyed the room, moving his head from side to side, taking in the most minute of details as an excited mind often does. Someone had left the Catholic hymnals in the pockets in the back of the pews. This would need to be addressed after he’d finished checking for this intruder. It wouldn’t do for a Jewish service to come in and find them left behind. He also noticed that there were several empty Kleenex boxes littering the pews and they would need to be replaced with fresh ones. It was being attentive to small things like this which gave a funeral home its reputation.

So much to remember…

When he finally arrived at the side of the casket, he took a nervous look back over his shoulder. The chapel lay as it had before, quiet and empty. Turning back, he carefully slid his fingers under the lip of the lid and gently, but with constant pressure, pulled upwards. What little light there was in the room pushed back the shadows within the casket.

Mrs. Jacob’s face slowly slid into full view. Her skin looked blanched of any color, her lips bleached of any shade. He used both of his hands to push the lid to its full upright position and surveyed her body. She lay in quiet repose, wrapped in a white, linen sheet with only her sallow face exposed. She looked in good shape, all things considered. Her complexion was a little drawn, but structurally she was sound as a pound. He looked down the length of her body, and it was at that moment he noticed several circles of dark blood soaking into the linen midway down her chest. He gently pulled back the cloth, hating that he had no gloves for his hands, and exposed the area. What he found was beyond any fevered imagination. Three large pockets of flesh had been torn from the woman’s bound arm; large semi-circular chunks were ripped from the flesh leaving a massive amount of destruction to the tissues behind.

"You bastards!" he hissed as he cast another investigatory glance around the room. And then, as he leaned over and got a closer look inside, he whispered to himself, "These look like…bites. Who would do such a thing?"

Disgusted, Jeffrey abruptly stood upright and distractedly lowered the head panel of the casket. With his mind a thousand miles away, he turned and took a step back. His plan was to head to the foyer where an arrangement office was. There he’d make a call to the police to report the incident. As he was in the process of turning, the recognizable sound of movement on carpeting came to his ears again just seconds before he came face to face with the figure of a man standing a few feet away from him.

For fuck’s sake, I almost bumped right into him!

The man, who appeared to be wrapped in some kind of shiny cloak or large shawl, stood silently staring. The dim light outlined his form, making it look as if there were a halo surrounding him. His face however, remained hidden in a constant shadow.

"What the fu…?" The curse escaped Jeffrey’s lips before he could stop it. For a split second, he moved to cross himself and ask forgiveness for swearing in this place of God. "Who are you?" Jeffrey asked in his most authoritative tone. He hoped that whoever this guy was he wouldn’t notice Jeffrey’s knees quivering or the shiver in his voice. "What are you doing here?" He raised an accusatory finger toward him and then, pointing back toward the body of Mrs. Jacob, demanded, "Did you do this…?"

The stranger leaned forward, his face slowly coming into the subdued light. He stood there gaping back at him, his eyes empty of emotion, much less signs of intellect. Jeffrey stared into a face devoid of any semblance of humanity, an altogether empty slate. He’d seen this look on a person’s face before. It was the blank face of the dead and yet here the man stood, staring malignantly at him.

With a low groan, the stranger reached out with an unbelievable speed and grabbed Jeffrey roughly by both shoulders. He pulled and drew him quickly closer. His mouth worked up and down, snapping at the air, as if he was making an attempt to take a bite out of Jeffrey; to bite wherever his lips first came in contact with bare skin. Jeffrey struggled momentarily and then having gained a solid footing, pushed against the man with his free arm and shoulder. The figure stumbled backward, almost tripping over his own feet. He came to a teetering erect posture and slowly, uncertainly, stepped again toward Jeffrey.

"Get the fuck back," Jeffrey shouted, fear casting all thoughts of forgiveness or impropriety to the wind. Pushing him back once again, he brandished the metal rebar. "Dude, I will bash your fuckin’ skull in!"

The man before him gave no indication whatsoever of understanding. He just kept coming onward, opening and closing his mouth, and giving off the familiar stench of the recently deceased. Jeffrey had smelled it a thousand times and knew it instantly for what it was.

"AAAAAAAAAAH…" the man groaned as his arms reached out once again for Jeffrey and for the soft skin that lay at the base of Jeffrey’s throat. In the dim light, Jeffrey caught a quick glimpse of something which circled the man’s wrist. The shiny surface of the thing seemed to dance in the soft light. It was a medical wristband from St. Mary’s, a local hospital. Jeffrey recognized their Holy Mother logo. As the man’s hands took hold of his collar, Jeffrey was able to make out in the dim light a name typed on it: Robinson, John J.

Jeffrey shoved the dead man back once again, his brain at once understanding the wristband and its significance. With a grunt, he cocked the rebar up over his head and then brought it down straight into the center of his attacker’s forehead. A sound that reminded Jeffrey of a time when he dropped a watermelon at a family picnic punched through the silence of the chapel. Repeatedly, Jeffrey pistoned the rebar up and down and John J. Robinson’s skull caved inward, the bones collapsing in upon themselves. A soft jellylike substance dribbled out of the ruined cranium and coated the metal protruding from it. The man went rigid then fell, stiff legged, backward to the floor.

Silence returned to the chapel, falling like an anvil.

"What the fuck was that?!?" Jeffrey shouted, his voice climbing octaves like stairs. "Jesus Fucking Christ!"

He cast another quick apologetic glance to where the crucifix usually hung high on the chapel’s wall and crossed himself. He then bent down and took a moment to examine the now still figure lying before him. He just wanted to make sure it was who he thought it was. Once he’d confirmed it was indeed Mr. Robinson, he fell backwards into a sitting position and sat, legs akimbo, trying to piece it all together.

That guy was fucking dead. I made the goddamn removal from St. Mary’s myself. How the hell was he just walking around?

Jeffrey ran his hand through his hair and tried to think.

Jesus, was he just trying to fuckin’ bite me?!?

Getting up on all fours, he crawled over and checked the body one more time, pulling back the plastic shroud and counting the four rectangular scorch marks that had been left when the defibrillator pads were used on the man’s chest.

It was Robinson all right.

He was just fuckin’ dead, goddamnit !

As he knelt there trying to figure this whole mess out, behind him, from inside the Aaron, a set of small thin fingers slid into view from under the head panel, quietly forcing it up. Mrs. Jacob’s twisted features rose into view in the dim light, eyes wide and mouth moving as if she were silently gasping for air. The lid continued to move silently upward as she pushed against it. She struggled—due to the awkwardness of the Aaron’s construction and the fact that she was still bound up in her shroud—to sit upright. As she moved, the linen around her fell away to reveal a frightfully thin chest on which two flat sagging breasts sat against the lattice work of her rib cage. She pulled herself to the uppermost part of the head of the casket and slid a frail thin leg over the edge. Without making a sound, she climbed out with the stealth of a seasoned predator.

Jeffrey was still sitting trying to sort through the last few minute’s events. His back was exposed to both the altar and Mrs. Jacob. Suddenly the silence was broken when he heard a slight creaking of the wood behind him. He swiveled his head around and caught sight of Mrs. Jacob climbing out of the casket and struggling to stand erect.

"Uuuuuuh…" she moaned as she took her first tentative steps toward him. "UUU-uuuuuuuhhh…"

"Fuuu-uuck me!" Jeffrey sighed as he scrambled to his feet and spun to face her.

This just wasn’t possible…

Without really looking, he took a small step back and reached with his hand behind him for some kind of physical mooring on which to tie his mental instability. His searching fingers found the ridges on the rebar, and with a quick jerk, he wrenched it out of Mr. Robinson’s crushed skull. Using all of the muscles in his shoulders, he brought the metal rod around—Babe Ruth style—and connected with the side of the old woman’s head. A sickening, wet sound reverberated through the stillness of the chapel.

Welp, if she wasn’t dead, I’m going to have a helluva lot of ’splaining to do.

The old lady teetered on her feet for the briefest second like a Jenga tower. Then, with the side of her head caved in, she fell with a gut-wrenching thud. The sound of her body hitting the carpet was one Jeffrey didn’t think he’d ever forget. It was so final, so utterly incontrovertible.

"OK…" Jeffrey said aloud as he looked at the scene around him, "I am outta here!"

He turned on his heel and quickly made his way up the chapel’s aisle and through the open double doors. He skidded to a stop halfway across the foyer once he realized the rebar—now coated with a stew of blood, bone, brain matter and cerebral fluid—was still in his hand. In disgust, he dropped the metal bludgeon to the carpet and wiped his hands on the thighs of his pant legs. Taking a brief glance back at the now gently swinging doors of the chapel, he continued on to the hallway and its visitation rooms.

Jeffrey took the left down the corridor and his progress slowed as his mind continued the laborious task of processing all that had transpired in the past few minutes. The very fabric of what he thought possible had been torn forever asunder and he figured it would be best if he tried to gain a little perspective before executing his next move.

"Ok, so… time to recap," he said aloud and he looked up the hallway and then back in the direction from which he’d come.

For whatever reason, the dead folk in this place don’t seem to want to stay dead. They’re getting back up and walking around, fer fuck’s sake. That much is pretty goddamn obvious. For another, they seem intent on doing me severe bodily harm. By luck or by providence, I’ve managed to not let that happen. I’ve been able to put them all back down before they could inflict any damage. How long that dumb luck will last is anybody’s guess.

What was proving difficult to get his mind around were the whys and wherefores of how it was all possible. Dead folks just don’t get up after they’ve been pronounced dead, did they? Something, some small sliver of information began chewing at the back of his subconscious like a rat gnawing its way through wood. Maybe it was something he’d read. Maybe it was something he’d heard. He knew there was an answer, but for the life of him, he just couldn’t force the concept to congeal.

The hallway was as it had been moments before, bereft of sound and cloaked in a cover of silky darkness. The shadows played at the corners of the corridor and, given recent events, each held a promise of silent menace. Far off, the drone of the big walk-in refrigerator cycling on could be heard through the austere walls. None of it mattered much to Jeffrey. He was still busy freaking out over what just happened in the chapel. He cautiously walked down the hall toward the back of the funeral home, passing first the empty visitation room now on his right and then past the room where Mrs. Devon lay.

As he crept past the doorway of the second room, a slender hand—fingers clenched like arthritic claws—reached out for him from within the inky blackness between the door and its frame. Jeffrey tensed as the rumbling of the refrigerator ceased, but continued moving down the hallway. Suddenly, he was grabbed roughly by the back of his shirt’s collar and his body was jerked to an abrupt halt. The force of his forward momentum pulled the late Mrs. Devon through the doorway and out into the hallway even as he skidded to a stop.

Mrs. Devon creakily stood near him dressed in the same olive green dress Jeffrey himself had put her in. A strand of pearls accented the outfit and a single rose corsage adorned her lapel. "Mother liked things simple," her children had told him during the arrangement conference. He’d even made a note of it in the woman’s case file. Jeffrey spun around and twisted away from her with all of his might, his motion sufficient to break her feverish hold on him. Midway through, he lashed out with his closed fist.

He had to admit it… he’d really put his back into it.

When he connected with Mrs. Devon’s face, his accuracy was nothing short of impeccable. He drove the far side of his fist up under the tip of her slightly upturned—suitors had once called it "coquettish"—nose. The force of the blow shattered the woman’s cartilage, driving the bulk of the hardened material upward through the soft, spongy cribriform plate of her ethmoid bone and on through to her brain. The sharp edges of the cartilage punched through and bisected the lobes of her freshly awakened brain, effectively shutting it back down before it had a chance to become fully aware.

"Mom liked simple…" Jeffrey whispered, out of breath, "Mom got simple."

The woman’s head jerked back with terrible force and she toppled, slamming her head into a small wooden credenza which sat on one side of the hallway. Her body crumpled to the floor like a marionette whose strings had just been cut.

Bending over, Jeffrey roughly pulled apart the front of the woman’s dress, buttons popping and bouncing on the floor like Mexican jumping beans, and double checked the autopsy incisions he sewed up himself…just to make sure.

From his crouching stance, he looked up toward the door at the end of the passageway marked "Employees Only." The shadow-draped hallway beyond was the only thing visible through the small Plexiglas window set in the door at just about chest height. Further in, he could just make out the dull glow of the light coming from the office as it illuminated the ceiling from across the loading area. He stood up, took a deep breath, and resumed his now tentative journey back down the darkened hall.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

When he reached the door, he rose up on tiptoes and peered hesitantly through the window in all directions. Inside, nothing stirred. Jeffrey held his breath and again closed his eyes, willing himself to listen through the door for any sounds of movement. He tilted his head back and focused all of his attention on his sense of hearing. The soft chug-chugging of the washing machines and the distant droning voice from the radio were the only sounds that reached his attentive ears. With a soft sigh, he let out the breath he’d been holding and opened his eyes.

In the dim twilight of the hallway behind the door, he noticed that he could no longer see the light shining up onto the loading area’s ceiling. The small window was completely dark. He leaned closer to try to figure out what could be obstructing his view.

Suddenly, right in front of him, separated only by the thin wooden door, an eye opened in the blackness.

"Jeez-us!" Jeffrey gasped. Another of those things was right on the other side of the goddamn door! He took a stumbling step backward away from the door just as Mr. Lodene came through with his arms outstretched and his fingers spasming.

Mr. Lodene exhaled an odor of decay and putrefaction through his stitched together jaws as he came, naked as a jaybird, through the still swinging door. As his face came into the half-light, he made an effort to pull his lower jaw into a toothy snarl. With muffled, popping sounds the stitches tore themselves loose from their moorings in the soft flesh of his gums. His mouth ran crimson with dark blood and the thin twine hung from his lips like strands of dental floss. He took two loping steps forward and clawed feverishly at Jeffrey’s shirt. His mouth chewed emptiness and dribbled long, syrupy strings of saliva. Now locked in a macabre two-step, the men—one alive and the other quite dead—twisted and stumbled back down the hallway, each attempting to gain control over the other. Suddenly, the back of Jeffrey’s calves bumped up against Mrs. Devon’s prone body and he fell backward over the dead woman. Mr. Lodene, having no choice in the matter, fell right along with him.

The tumble put Jeffrey in an exceedingly precarious position. His legs had become entangled in the limbs of the twice dead Mrs. Devon and the nude Mr. Lodene was now on top of him, his face all fetid breath, slimy saliva, and snapping jaws. There was not a lot of time for Jeffrey to think, but one thing was abundantly clear from the microbiology classes he’d taken in college: getting bitten by one of these dead things was probably not the wisest of moves. Being careful to avoid the dead man’s hungry mouth, Jeffrey grabbed him by the throat—his fingers choking and crushing flesh. It was difficult to get a firm grip on the man’s neck as a result of the "skin slip," which made the flesh slimy and slippery. He finally got a solid grasp and Jeffrey extended his arms, holding the man and his ravenous jaws at bay. It wasn’t that difficult to control the dead man. It seemed as if death had stolen away a lot of his strength along with his heartbeat, but Jeffrey knew that one small mistake would send those snapping jaws down to meet the yielding meat of his neck.

The sternocleidomastoidius muscle, he thought, in another of those odd moments.

This was all well and good, but it still left Jeffrey flat on his back with a newly awakened corpse on top of him. He knew he needed to be quick and to act decisively. No telling if there were more of these things wandering about… as weird as that sounded. Mr. Lodene struggled in his grasp, pushing against Jeffrey’s outstretched arms, scratching at his chest and biting at the air and snarling. Inspiration struck and Jeffrey, with a sudden redirection of his energy, pulled Mr. Lodene down toward him—fast. At the last instant, Jeffrey jerked his head to the side and continued to pull the dead man past him, rolling out from under as he did so. Using all of his upper body strength, he smashed the dead man’s forehead against the carpeted floor again and again, stunning him.

Jeffrey quickly wriggled the rest of the way out from under the now dazed, prone form. He quickly clambered around and took control of him from the back by grabbing two large handfuls of hair. Entwining his fingers in the greasy strands, he continued bashing the man’s face against the floor; once, twice, three times. A wet spot was soon visible on the carpeting, leaving a distorted Shroud of Turin-like image. By now, Jeffrey had gained a more proper footing and yanked the dead man almost upright. Shifting directions, he hoisted his bulk up and off of the floor. He then twisted at the waist and drove Mr. Lodene’s forehead down against the corner of the credenza that Mrs. Devon fell upon on her way to the floor. Repeatedly, he pounded the dead man’s skull against the corner of the table. The sharp corner of the wood crumbled under the onslaught. Jeffrey finally ceased his assault when he noticed a substance which resembled grey cottage cheese covering the corner of the wood’s surface. Jeffrey released Mr. Lodene and the dead man slumped downward, falling on top of Mrs. Devon.

"I am not," panted Jeffrey as he stood up, his shirt now splattered with blood and brains, "responsible for any of this shit!"

Silence once again descended on the building with a kind of finality. Jeffrey got to his feet and cautiously approached the swinging door at the end of the hall. He caught the edge of the door with his foot and drew it open cautiously. He carefully peered inside just in case there were any more surprises. Finding none, he stepped through. Everything looked pretty normal. Well, as normal as could be expected in light of recent events. The Prep Room door was open, a consequence of Mr. Lodene’s unnatural resurrection, no doubt. The lights were still on in the room, reflecting a brilliant white from the linoleum. Jeffrey heard no sound nor saw any movement so he took another hesitant step.

No sooner did his foot touch the ground than a large shadow drifted across the doorway. Its bulk was prodigious, round and lacking in height. Jeffrey ticked off in his mind the firm’s clients in a rapid succession: Robinson, Jacob, Devon, Lodene… Harvey.

Mrs. Harvey—the big woman whose heart had blown out that he’d been working on when Marshall Howard’s phone call came.

"Shit!" he breathed out in a hiss.

Again the shadow drifted like a zeppelin past the light coming from the doorway. This time, he noticed an odd protrusion slanting down from the main form. At first, he was at a loss to identify exactly what it was. Mentally clicking off options, Jeffrey almost felt the light bulb go off over his head.

The trocar! She still has the trocar in her!

The thought made him sag in his own skin.

This just keeps getting better and better.

He almost considered saying "fuck it" and going back the way he’d come, but the decision was taken out of his hands when Mrs. Harvey suddenly shuffled around the doorframe and stuttered to a halt not a foot in front of him. Jeffrey wasn’t sure if The Dead could register surprise or not, but the look that passed over the dead woman’s face came mighty close. She hesitated for a fraction of a second and then instinct kicked in like a mule.

"Huuuuuuuuuuuuuu…" she screeched, her voice husky and raw. Her arms came up, hands clawing angrily at the air. Her body was even more rotund on its feet than it’d seemed when she was lying on her back on the embalming table. Rolls of fat, one on top of the other, rippled as she moved. Stretch marks glimmered in the light and highlighted the places on her skin where the flesh had been pulled beyond its limitations. Ten pudgy little fingers danced at the end of her hands, pulling at the air directly in front of Jeffrey’s face. She took another heaving step toward him, closing the gap between them even more.

Just as he was about to turn and run like hell, Jeffrey felt something firm poke against his abdomen. It felt like a thick finger only more solid. He shot a quick glance downward and saw the handle of the metal trocar jutting out of Mrs. Harvey’s massive belly. The butt of it prodded him firmly in the belly.

Fuck it…

With a deft move, he grabbed the metal rod with one hand and pulled it firmly from her body. Then, bending slightly at the knees, he drove the thing up toward the dead woman’s face. The metal point struck her just below the lower jaw and, because of the force with which it was delivered, passed through the mouth and soft palate, lodging itself deep into the center of her skull. The woman halted briefly from the blow and then tried to take another sloppy step forward.

"Will you fucking die already?" Jeffrey shouted.

He pushed against the bottom end of the trocar with both hands and shoved the woman back, her back slamming against the wall. She tried to speak, but the sound came out garbled, like she was trying to talk with a mouth full of marbles. Her blackened tongue caressed the metal rod jutting up through the musculature of her lower jaw. Heaving with a potent mixture of muscle and adrenaline, Jeffrey pushed upward and the instrument was driven deeper into her head. Her eyes quivered in their sockets and a rivulet of blood dribbled from one nostril. Another hard push and the trocar smashed its way straight out of the top of her skull. Her massive form convulsed as the metal tip skewered bone and grey matter. Her body suddenly went rigid and then abruptly slack. Her brain now impaled, she fell, heavy and hard, to the ground.

Jeffrey’s breath came in short, distressed gasps now as his tissues cried out for oxygen. Adrenaline burned like gasoline in his bloodstream and his heart beat like a drum in his chest. All at once he felt tired; really tired. The trauma of the past few minutes suddenly back-handed his reason and it was all he could do to keep his hands from shaking.

I just killed—or rather re-killed—five people.

What. The fuck.

Rushing across the loading area, Jeffrey headed toward the office. He cleared the doorway and noticed the clock on the desk read 1:48 A.M. Jesus, everything that had happened—Marshall’s phone call, the investigation of the funeral home, Mr. Robinson, Mrs. Jacob, Mrs. Devon, Mr. Lodene, and that fat fucking Mrs. Harvey—everything had all taken place in just under ten minutes.

Outside the office door, loud thumping sounds were suddenly heard. Peeking back the way he’d come, he peered back into the dim loading area. A muffled, baritone moaning was added to the din coming from the washing machines to his left and the radio behind him. He looked around the loading area and saw nothing. Suddenly, he realized where the sound was coming from—the shipping container. The corpse inside was no doubt banging its fists futilely against the inside of its sealed casket, trying to let itself out. Its moans were born from a combination of rampant hunger and abject frustration.

"OK… that’s it! I am done. Time to find my fucking keys and get the hell out of Dodge!"

Jeffrey surveyed the office and finally saw his keys sitting on the desk. Forsaking his suit coat on the hook on the wall, he snatched them up and headed for the door. He grabbed the doorknob and twisted. The door came open and he stopped abruptly.

What if there are more of them out here?

Cautiously, he poked his head out of the doorway and took stock of the parking lot. The area seemed empty except for his car which sat in its usual parking space at the far end under the tree. He carefully took a step out and continued to scan the lot. For a moment, his mind made every shape and shadow come alive with menace, but soon, he saw that everything lay quiet.

Thank God for small favors, eh?

He turned and quietly pulled the door shut behind him. The last thing he heard from the office as the door clock clicked shut was a voice pouring coldly from the clock radio’s small speaker. Everything he heard only served to confirm his worst fears.

…every dead body that is not exterminated will rise, Ladies and Gentlemen. It will get up and, as remarkable as it sounds, it will attack. Any person that is killed or injured will do the same. Any and all dead or bitten persons must be exterminated by destroying the brain or severing the head from the person’s neck. Fire works as well. Whatever is happening must be controlled before it’s too late! They’re simply multiplying too quickly!!

 "Yeah," he said as he headed off into the night, "no shit."