Tag: Gore

A droplet, a bead of rich, earthy red jiggling atop a silvery sheet; it smears when my finger presses it, and leaves a mark on my glove, more permanent than the mark it leaves on stainless steel. I regard it, the stain upon the latex that shields my thumb, the strange glisten upon the faint pattern of mottled texture meant to improve the grip of the thing between me and my intention.

“Did you hear me, Serena?”

I look up from the dark blotch and regard another sort of grime. Marco leers at me, his thumbs stuffed into his pockets, his elbows swinging with some variety of body language punctuation. I stare at his greasy browline, trace the path of a single bead of oily sweat as it finds its way with considerable inevitability to his eyebrow, before sinking to his eyelash. I can feel his frustration as sweat mingles with the moistness of his eye, and he is drawn from his ire with me to fidget with his eyelid, tugging and blinking, trying to dispel the itchy sensation. I take this moment to answer his prodding.

“Yes, Marco. I heard you.”

“I don’t believe- damn, fucker- I don’t believe you, Lamia. You listen to ghosts better than you listen- shit, my fucken eye- better than you listen to me, or Ratty, or even Captain.”

I shrug and lean forward, laying my hands on the bloody pedestal of the steel operating table. My face inches closer to his, and I see him become less concerned with the pain he has developed in his eye, and more confounded by the confusion as to whether he is aroused or unnerved. I know him. He is a womanizer, a man proud of how many places he has pierced, eager to feel a tongue on him. But he knows me almost as well, and so elects to lean back, easing off. I humor him, however.

“Four more this week, same as usual, get Mickey to handle the goods. Nothing new in that, Marco, other than your insistence that I need to hear it from you directly. Should I expect Julia to come through my door soon, given how much you’ve taken to visiting me?”

He shudders and rubs his neck with one hand, the other back at his belt loops, tugging at a ratty bit of denim. I glance down in mock appraisal, then scowl at him. I know full well that he struggles to understand a woman he doesn’t see as meat. My comment about Julia, his favorite hanger-on, doesn’t bother him so much as the implication that he might desire me carnally; although it might be his complicated feelings about that idea that really bother him. I have to be careful, or he might learn what love really means, and I have no time for whatever method he uses to explore that concept. He finds words as I lean away again.

“Just doing as Captain says, you know that, L.”

I scoff, half at his use of the initial for my nickname, half at the feeble excuse. Marco is not nearly familiar enough to use pet names with any sincerity. Even the Captain treats me with the same business-like attitude he gives his muscle. I am just another tool, and Marco has to learn that lesson himself. I smile, and give a mocking, sympathetic tilt of my head.

“Oh, I get it. Boss man wants you to see how the sausage is made. Sent you down thinking I’d still be working when you showed up.”

I mime disappointment.

“Damn, I should’ve taken my time. I could’ve given you a proper tutorial, maybe you could have helped me crack the ribs.”

Marco looks pale, and is quite still. Any thoughts of salacious acts have been shoved out of his head by a piston of envisioned morbidity. He doesn’t know my work well enough to know that I use a saw, not brute strength. I can almost imagine the way Captain will laugh at my jab when Marco inevitably brings it up over dinner. Marco will feel embarrassed, annoyed, and- ah hell. He’ll have the excuse to visit again.

I wipe the smile from my face and make a shooing motion with my hand.

“Go on, I’m wrapping up for the day, and I don’t need a body that still moves getting in the way. If you want to stay, grab a sponge and a bucket.”

He does not wish to stay. Interesting I may be, and familiar with death he may be, our worlds are not compatible. To him, once a person becomes a body, he has no business with them. He is a mess maker. I only have business with a person after their last breath.

I watch him retreat up the stairs, muttering under his breath, before I let my shoulders slump and turn to the sink. I glimpse my reflection in the smudged mirror above the receptacle. Dark blood down my apron, my surgical mask hanging at my neck, my black hair up in a braid, the silver spikes in my ears. All is distorted, and my black lips are like a plum bitten at uneven intervals. I am impressed with Marco for managing to still find warmth when regarding me.

/////

I close the door to my apartment and twist the lock, shoving the deadbolt into place. Electronic music throbs from the ceiling above me, a sound that has all but faded from my notice by now. I toss my bag over a waist-high wall onto the only couch in my living area. The kitchen, my destination, is near.

I kick my sneakers off and open the fridge, staring steadily at a half-full bottle of hard cider, then a white takeout container. I grab the latter, then the former, and shut the door with my hip. The food I toss into the microwave for an irrelevant amount of time, and the bottle I set down on a folded paper towel on my square table. Real wood. Sealed ages ago. My eyes drift, and I let them find the window, flitting around the yellow and pale blue lights of a city that knows itself a little too little, and all too well. The lambs are too hopeful, the wolves are too hungry, and I’m too cold by far. The microwave hums, then beeps, and I depart from the gruesome spectacle of another steaming orange sunrise to engage with my dinner.

Fried rice, bean sprouts, egg, unidentifiable near-cubes of overcooked meat. Familiar, forgettable.

Marco is an idiot. He’s a heap of witless obedience that strives to be more. He wants to live, the fool. He ought to find his serenity in his countless conquests, but perhaps he has become too familiar with the sensation of putting lead or genetic material in a warm body, as I have become used to the half-warm rice that I barely chew before swallowing. Maybe he looks at me and sees change. He really should know better. Unfortunately, he’s smart enough to feel boredom, but not smart enough to endure it. I suspect Captain keeps him around for entertainment, the suspense. When will the proud hound slip up, screw the wrong neighbor’s poodle? It’s hardly Marco’s fault, I suppose. He’s surely almost as many nerves in his balls as neurons in his skull.

In a certain sense, pestering me is possibly his wisest option. I should give him that much credit, at least. Captain probably doesn’t even think I’m capable of lust, let alone intimacy. He surely does not see me through the eyes of surrogate fatherhood; no one could and still let me do what I do. No, if Marco finds himself chasing me, his biggest concern is what I do to him; Captain doesn’t even enter the equation from his perspective.

“Fuck you, Marco. Go back to chasing tail, even if it’s your own.”

I sip the cider and sigh, slumping down into my chair. Tomorrow, I suspect, will be a long day. I have no doubt that I will see him again. If I’m lucky, it will be with a bonesaw in my hand, and a body on my table. At least then I can ignore him.

//////

No saw, no body, one Marco, thumbs at their stations in his pockets, eyes wandering. I curse my luck. I curse his glandular zeal. I curse his pathetic courtship.

“Pretty mean of you, L.”

“What is?”

Pretending to be engrossed with the charts on my clipboard, I tally and re-tally the large cabinets along the south wall. Pretty empty. Four new guests are coming to board soon, so I’ve been told. Marco follows me from the other side of the room, a little too obviously avoiding the wall that promises, with its handles, hinges, and shiny doors, to hold death and decay.

“Lyin’ to me like that. Cracking ribs, really?”

Despite myself, I glance over my shoulder at him. I can see the joy in his eyes at my mistake. No matter. Words are already leaving my lips.

“Marco, just because I use tools to do my work doesn’t make it more tidy. Have you ever smelled a perforated bowel? Held an intestine? Seen a smoker’s lungs?”

My last poke is particularly effective. Marco is, himself, a smoker. I savor the accidental empathy, the idea of seeing himself in the dissected, imagined carcass. He shows considerable grit, swallowing his discomfort. I’ll give him points for that.

“Serena.”

I sigh and press the clipboard down onto a wheeled side table and relent, turning to face him fully. I haven’t even bothered to don my apron yet. He’s not green, he’s a seasoned killer. I’ll show him at least the respect that demands of me. He touches a scalpel, and I bite back annoyance.

“Do you really… enjoy this? I mean, it can’t be… fun.”

I fold my arms and glare just a little, before entertaining his thoughts, bringing them along on a motivated jog towards their inevitable conclusion.

“Okay Marco, do you have fun putting holes in people? When Captain gives you a name, are you glad to load bullets and burn rubber?”

He thinks. Once more credit to the poor fool, he has something resembling a brain between his ears, and can actually think before responding. Maybe I wrote him off too soon, Captain must have some hope this hound can learn the important tricks.

“It’s not fun, no. But it’s the job, right? Is that how it is, then? You do it because you have to?”

I bite my lip and turn away. There’s no need. I really have no need to upset his worldview. I stare at one of the cabinets, one that has a smudged nametag for now.

“That’s half of it, yes.”

I turn back and give him just a few more points, this time in spoken words.

“You do what you do because it’s your job, yes? But you only get a job because you’re good at it. Boss man wouldn’t bring you on unless you had a genuine talent for dispensing with other people’s lives. I don’t get four more this week unless you, Ratty, and Nick bring them in. Yes?”

He gets it. What’s more, to my annoyance, He also seems to understand why I’m different in his view. I make a silent prayer that he leaves it at that; that he sees clearly enough to separate his frustrating knack for passion from his curiosity about my talents. That I am adept with the knife ought to be enough to hold him and his instincts at bay. Self preservation is an instinct too.

Our ruminations are not to last. Ratty comes through the side door, hauling a black bag. Ratty. A hairy man that might be more a case of hair that grew skin. He is as much canvas coat and scarf as he is creature. He lugs the body in, and lays it on my table and turns to leave. I like Ratty. He doesn’t care for words, doesn’t leave you sure that he knows how to use them. Frankly, I’d sooner let Ratty into my apartment than Marco, but Ratty wouldn’t ask. I follow the thought, and suppose that if Ratty is in my apartment, something very severe has occurred- either I am to die, or some fundamental law of the universe has fled its station.

Marco is frozen, caught in between two cars in his train of thought. I am moving, strapping on my apron and mask, and laying out my tools. Marco realizes too late, and makes to leave, trying to follow the hulking trenchcoat. Too, too late.

“Oh Marco, since you’re here…”

He stops in his tracks. Idiot. He could’ve kept walking, but he’s just a little too polite to realize. I smile behind my mask. He’s getting a crash course, whether he likes it or not.

I pick up a scalpel, and wave it towards the bag.

“If you would.”

He grits his teeth, flexes his fist. He knows, knows that if he leaves now, he has wasted my time, and thereby wasted Captain’s time. No choice now. He shuffles over, and tears open the bag.

A fool, a sinner, a log. I tighten my gloves, and stride over. The dehumanizing vernacular holds no appeal to me, but I’ve heard Marco and Mickey exchange any number of terms, snatched from rumor and history with equal disregard. Anything to slip by the acknowledgement that what here lies once ate, breathed, and likely spoke. I’ve no use for that kind of self-deceit.

I do not meet the glassy eyes, I do not falter upon the discolored lips. I make right for the torso. Steel parts skin from itself. Marco is unhappy, but I am haltingly glad for his presence. He is now a vise, a source of ease. A body can be held just as needed with an extra pair of hands. It’s not for me to consider the reason for which I now extract deformed bullets from a lung. I don’t need to contemplate how the lead found a cause to rend flesh. The flowering way a pink organ has become torn is the most I appreciate of my task. Foreign material extracted, my real work begins. Marco has taken to groaning occasionally, but he shows a degree of resolve I am forced to acknowledge. I may deputize him yet.

I examine the area below the ribs first, feeling around the cavity with my hands, counting in murmurs. The grisly squishing and squelching falls on deaf ears for my part. Marco looks like he might puke, but I trust that he is smart enough to find the time and wisdom to put any bodily fluid he does end up producing somewhere that will not trouble me. I sigh and withdraw my hands.

“Not there, anyway. Looks like I’ll need the saw.”

I huff and fetch the tool from the cloth, and return to the body, ignoring my assistant’s cursing protestations as I begin to reengage with a modicum of strength. I’ve never taken to carpentry, and so can only wonder how bone compares to pine or oak. I hear the former is soft, and the latter is tough. I trust this to be true.

When finished, I lay the extracted bone aside, and reach into my new point of access. I find what I’m looking for almost immediately, and laugh. I pull one hand free to fetch another tool to cut with, and work with some renewed gusto. Marco’s voice nearly does not reach my ears.

“I thought you said this wasn’t fun for you!”

//////

We slide the sewn up body into a cabinet, and both unceremoniously drop onto stools, Marco nearly falling over. We have both discarded our gloves, mine significantly messier than his. I don’t mind that. He worked hard, for his part.

No words are exchanged for a while, and when I find the time between filling out a chart and filing it away, I offer him a can of beer from the fridge. I don’t tend to drink the stuff myself, but Ratty and Mickey will occasionally grab one when passing through. Marco seems unsure as to whether he feels well enough to drink, then decides, perhaps because of general exhaustion or some latent urge to seem amicable, to accept. It hisses as it cracks open.

I consider taking off my apron, but elect to leave it, in case Ratty brings another. Maybe I’ll even meet Nick for once.

“How do you do it, Lamia? Day in, day out, just, bodies.”

I glance at Marco, watch his throat pulse with blood and booze. His stubble is lazily trimmed, his face is sun-tanned. I suspect he is up past his usual bed time, but the weight in the bags under his eyes suggests he’s used to late nights. His inquest merits an answer, anyway.

“You’d be surprised what you can get used to, Polo.”

He doesn’t need an honest answer; he just needs sound beyond the swill of liquid past his lips. I grab a bucket and sponge from under the sink and collect a little soap and some water. If Marco notices, he doesn’t show it. I hear him crack open a cigarette case and scowl, slapping the wet sponge down on the table.

“If you’re going to light up, find somewhere else to do it, Marco. I don’t need another layer of stink in here.”

He doesn’t look at me, but nods and stands away from the wall he has taken to leaning against, stalking steadily out the side door, out into the night. I wonder, as I begin mopping the table with the sponge, if he’s off to sleep alone, or if Julia or any number of his ‘pets’ will be getting a visit tonight. Not that it concerns me, but I know Julia. I know that her interest in Marco should be purely transactional, and I know that it isn’t.

I squeeze bloody water out of the sponge and return to scrubbing. I know less than half of Captain’s people by name, but I’m sure every last one of them knows about the ‘Lamia’ that processes the dead. I have no doubt that rumor has even spread that Captain has had me cut into the living before. Still, Marco visits, and Mickey brings me food. There’s no room for judgement, no time to stone the witch. I tap the ground with the tip of my shoe as I reach for an isolated droplet. Something falls behind me.

I turn, and stare at the scalpel that toppled from the edge of a side table.

I don’t believe in ghosts, despite what Marco thinks. I move steadily over, and hold out my hand over the surface. I feel a light draft, and look up. A drop splashes on my hand, water. The vent over the table rattles. I pick up the scalpel, and inspect it, finding that the handle is wet. I sigh, and pull the table away from the vent, and intentionally place the scalpel in the very center, before grabbing another bucket from under the sink and placing it beneath the vent. A third drip plops loudly into the plastic, and I nod to myself, before returning to my cleaning. I soon regret bothering- the side door swings open, and Ratty comes lumbering through, soaked with rain and dragging another black bag.

//////

I finish cleaning the table and grunt, dropping the sponge into the bucket before carrying both over to the sink and pouring out the contents. As I clean the sink, I glance over my shoulder to where the rewards of my labor lay. In a weighing bowl, a handful of deformed organs lay in alcohol, dark red, purple, and pale yellow. I lean on the edge of the sink, letting the water run, before turning off the tap and wiping my gloves absentmindedly on my apron.

I approach the bowl and consult the scale. I’ve already filled out the chart, but now I consider the mass for myself. Captain should be pleased, the yield is good. Then again, maybe not. That I am able to produce such results is not simply a mark of my efficacy. It also reflects the state of the world. In three years, the number of customers passing through my doors has only increased. Mickey and Ratty have been with us since I can remember, and Marco joined a few years after me. Nick has been on with us twice as long as Marco.

As I understand it, Captain is already seeking another gunner. I won’t be surprised if Marco’s idiocy in hanging around me really does see him pressed into helping me more often, if things continue as they have been.

I consider the bloated, black-flecked liver that lays on the top of the pile. As I stare at it, I can practically hear the clinical voice from the announcements. ‘Prolonged use can produce adverse effects, speak to a licensed physician before making any adjustments to your dosage.’

As if. None of these fools spoke to anyone before they started sticking needles in their veins. Why would they start now? I hear heavy, rhythmic footfalls, and begin peeling off my gloves. Mickey.

He comes through the door like a train, his wraparound sunglasses gleaming in the fluorescent light. He grins at me through his bushy mustache, a dark brown caterpillar that becomes his sideburns, becomes his receding hairline. What hair he does have is long, and competes with mine for smoothness; he may have me beat in truth.

“Lady Serena! How’s your night comin’?”

I smile as warmly as I can without faking, and gesture to the scale that I have stepped to the side of.

“Two customers in one day, Mick. Business is good.”

He arrives almost immediately at my side, and leans over the bowl, nodding to himself as he appraises the product.

“Well now, that is a thing of beauty. Two livers, a lung, and… th’ fuck is that thing when its at home?”

He jabs a finger at a mottled mass of plaque and chitin. I smirk and fold my arms.

“That, is supposed to be a pancreas.”

“Fuckin’ A, really? Looks like a goddamn pinecone.”

His assessment is accurate, if crude. I shrug and start stripping away my apron after noticing the time, more due to Mickey’s entrance than the clock that hangs over the south wall.

“I didn’t ask Ratty when he brought the stiff in, but I pulled seven bullets outta her before I got to work.”

Mickey whistles and takes off his backpack; it’s a bit strange, seeing this man, who looks more like a biker than the college student that should be carrying the school backpack around. I watch him begin loading the organs into insulated containers, taking extra care with the aforementioned pancreas. As I study him, he begins humming to himself, and seems to glance at me from behind his glasses: he starts grinning again and wiggles his eyebrows.

“Something on your mind, fair lady?”

I shrug and gather my things, checking to make sure I stowed everything correctly.

“You talk to Marco lately? He keeps hanging around here. He isn’t dodging work, is he?”

Mickey raises an eyebrow and slings his backpack over his shoulder.

“I haven’t heard from the kid lately, no. Fuck’s he want, bothering you- need me to knock some sense into him?”

He reflexively cracks a knuckle on his left hand, and I shake my head quickly.

“No, I’m just wondering if something’s up. I’m half expecting Julia to come pick a fight with me for distracting him or something.”

I follow Mick out the door into the drizzling rain, and turn up the collar of my coat. Mick navigates the street with some kind of animal instinct, ducking into alleys without a word as to why, once even detouring through a passage in the basement of a building. I can’t tell from his gait, but I know there’s a pistol jammed into his waistband and a shotgun hanging from his armpit under his thick brown coat. The rain glistens on his forehead, stars on a field of smooth pale. After a few minutes of wandering, he replies, coughing before he starts.

“Ah, Marco is… well, you know him. He ain’t quite comfortable in his skin yet. Kid still thinks he’s playing cops and robbers, cowboys and indians. Some folks get into the dirt thinking there’s some kind of nobility and adventure in getting filthy. One day, he’ll wake up, and realize that this is all there is.”

I bite my thumb and glance over my shoulder, watching a vagrant shiver and pull their blanket tight around them. I turn back and make an effort to keep up with Mick’s chaotic path. He speaks again, his tone and volume a little lower.

“Captain told me once, you know…”

Something about the way he has become almost furtive makes me uneasy. I stuff my hands in my pockets and wrap my fingers around the folded pocket knife in my left. Mick clears his throat and continues.

“Told me, ‘Mick, there’s nothing glorious about what we do.’ Said we were just soldiers digging holes in mud. But someone’s gotta dig. If you can find a way to enjoy how a shovel feels in your hand, that’s all well and good, but don’t get confused enough that you start trying to find gold in the hole. Marco’s learning to love the shovel, but I think he’s also trying to figure out if someone’s hiding the gold from him.”

Mickey stops suddenly, glances around, then ducks into a boarded up hotel lobby. I don’t follow him: I don’t belong at a meetup. I hear the distorted echoes of voices from the door, greetings and laughter. I step away, and find a place to take shelter from the rain. Water flows down the street in a river, a swirl of colorless shimmers.

When Mickey returns, his bag is thinned out. I wonder at the price of continually resupplying insulated containers, but then suppose it falls under the costs of operation. Mickey nods at me, and I follow him out into the night.

//////

“Nick’s coming to meet us.”

I nearly choke on a fry. Mickey glances up from his country fried steak, but I cleanse my pallet with a sip of ice water and shake my head.

“Nick. As in, never visits the morgue, Nick? As in, Ratty and Marco’s mysterious third counterpart, Nick? Are you sure he exists? And he’s okay meeting me?”

Mickey shrugs and forks a bite of steak into his mouth, looking at the little jukebox that sits on the edge of our table against the window. His sunglasses decorate his forehead as his hair probably used to. He licks his thumb, then starts fiddling with a knob on the device, flipping through a song directory behind glass.

“Yeah, that Nick. And it’s not that he’s shy or anything, he’s just always too busy. One of the customers Ratty brought you yesterday’s supposed to be one of his. Nick’s good, real good. Better’n Ratty, some days. Used to be a cop, I think.”

I sit back and lay my hands on the table, attempting to digest both my fries and the information he has offered me. I look out into the diner, watching a waitress take a slice of pie out from a glass counter case and set it delicately into a styrofoam box. There’s a fondness in her downcast eyes that ought to be reserved for whoever gave her the necklace swaying from her neck.

“Used to be a cop?”

Mick nods and presses a button. The jukebox flickers, then begins producing tinny music. He bobs his head a bit before returning to his food.

“Yeah, yeah. When shit changed, and they started selling that crap, he was a… uh, vice detective, I think. Maybe whatever comes before detective. Suddenly, job description changed, and he didn’t feel like playing along. So, he finds his way to us, says he’s got what it takes, and Boss man pulls him on. Course, it helps that… Well, you know where the orders come from and why. Makes perfect sense that Nick ends up with us. Hell, he was probably hot on our tail back then.”

Mick pauses and looks at me with his bright blue eyes. He frowns.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t know that. I’d’ve thought… well, I guess you only really got into the game because shit went sideways.”

I nod. I never made it into a career before I signed on. I pull the hair tie from my wrist and start putting it on in preparation to eat seriously. It’s hard not to pass judgement on a faceless name, especially when I’ve now heard so much about its owner. I still can’t quite imagine a face for the name, but now I’m picturing a police uniform, the badge torn from the breast. As I consider the image, a hand lands on the booth, and a body slides in next to me, offending my sense of personal space. I turn slowly and witness slick blonde hair, a strong jaw, and dark brown eyes. He’s grinning in a way that makes my stomach tight.

“Hey there. Name’s Nick. You must be Serena.”

Ah. He’s a pretty boy. His clean-shaven chin, his crinkled eyes, his rough hands, the way he snatches a fry from my plate without a care in the world. He’s wearing a buttoned gray shirt and navy slacks. A black leather jacket barely hides his armpit holster.

“Serena, yes. I take it we’ve both heard a lot about each other.”

He grins just a little wider, before turning and jutting his chin at Mickey, who seems wholly invested in his side of home fries. I pull my plate closer and pick up my burger. I study Nick carefully as I bite into my sandwich.

“So, Mick, did the drop off go smooth?”

“Does a nice car in the shade collect pigeon shit?”

Nick laughs and nods, before catching a waitress and giving her his order. He’s an intense specimen, flirting, suave, rude, confident. I don’t like him, but I also feel that he’s exactly where he belongs. When he turns back to us, his smile has given way to a shine of seriousness.

“The one I bagged today seemed pretty far gone. How’d she turn out?”

The question, though spoken facing Mickey, seems to be aimed at me. Fine. I turn my burger to get a better angle, and shrug.

“Definitely above average yield. Three products, one all the way to calcified.”

He grunts in approval and sits back, draping his arm across the back of the booth. My skin crawls. I take another bite, and chew slowly, crossing my legs. Mickey sets his fork down and pushes his plate away.

“So, Nick, what has you in the neighborhood? Trouble finding a target?”

“Nah. The kid wanted the next number, and Ratty had already grabbed the one before it. I just got outbid. So, running errands, Captain told me to stay nearby, in case you needed backup. Imagine my surprise when I asked to check in, and you’ve already got backup.”

He looks pointedly at me, and I snort, taking the last bite of my burger and wiping my hands on a napkin. Mickey fields his mistake for me.

“Serena isn’t backup, Nick, she just tags along sometimes.”

Nick affects genuine surprise, and looks at me head on. Something about his dark eyes suggests his incredulity is incomplete.

“You’re kidding. Half the boss’s bodyguards shake in their boots when Marco talks about you. I figured you must kick ass when you’re not down in the basement.”

Mickey says nothing to that, and I feel no inclination to expound on his education. That doesn’t stop him from continuing on.

“Might be rude of me, but I gotta ask then; why do the guys call you… well, what they call you?”

“Lamia?”

He nods. Fine. I’ll play. But Mick steps in before I start to answer.

“Nobody told you? Shit, no wonder you’re sitting there, cool as a cucumber. Nick, Serena isn’t just our post-mortem surgeon.”

Nick glances at Mick, then back at me. He’s starting to get the picture, I think. He doesn’t seem unnerved, however. I’m starting to get a clearer picture of him, too. Mick presses on.

“Doesn’t happen much nowadays, but back before things went screwy, we were a proper power, right? You know that much. Not many people been on long enough to remember, except me and Ratty. Before Captain was in charge, It was a fella named Carlos.”

Mick pauses to spit. I sympathize.

“Carlos was a mean son of a bitch, he’d just as soon bite your ear off as look at you. We would run anything you could name, and if someone shorted us, it didn’t matter how much, Carlos would see to it that they never ran afoul of us again. And if they did, they died, that was it. Now, at the time, Serena here was fresh out of med school. But Carlos needed a cutter after he stabbed the previous guy with his own razor. So he has a bully by the name of uhh…”

“Jimmy. You’re thinking of Jimmy.”

“Yeah, it was Jimmy, wasn’t it. Nasty fucker in his own right.”

The jukebox trips, and settles into a crackly loop as Mick continues.

“Jimmy, he sends to go find someone who knows how to cut a person without killing them. Jimmy finds Serena. Throws her in a van, brings her to Carlos. Carlos, he’s impatient, so he has someone ready for her to cut. And he has her cut. He lines up people for her to cut day in day out for a week. Has Jimmy watch her the whole time, make sure she never goes easy on anyone. Hookers, homeless, whoever. I think there was even the head of another family in there somewhere. All people Carlos has issues with, no matter how small.

“At the end of the week, Carlos comes to check on her. She’s done well, done everything he asked. There’s a problem though; Jimmy’s left her alone. Nowhere to be seen. Carlos is furious. Swears he’s gonna find old James, and put him under the knife next. But nobody can find the fucker.

“What Carlos doesn’t know is, Jimmy tried to have his way with Serena. Tried to distract her from her work. And by the time he worked up the nerve, she’d already gotten used to all the blood and guts, and all the screaming. So when he tried to push her down, she cut into him without a second thought. Trimmed him down to size, practiced everything she knew how to do, and sent him out of the compound bit by bit, piece by piece, right under Carlos’s nose. Me and Ratty knew, even helped her do it, because there was almost nobody Jimmy hadn’t done wrong, pushin’ on em or trying to force himself on their girl. Only Carlos liked Jimmy, maybe because everyone else loathed him. Captain, ‘fore he was called Captain, he caught wind of what Serena did. Made introductions, told her to expect gifts. Two days later, Captain is Captain, and Carlos is a stitched up mess in a box on some poor policeman’s doorstep.”

I slurp my milkshake and stare out the window, watching a sports car on raised suspension roll by. Mickey turns off the jukebox. Nick scoffs.

“Shit. You aren’t joking? She did all that?”

Mickey shrugs and rubs his chin in his calloused hands.

“I don’t know everything, but Captain made promises to a lot of us around that time. He knew us better than Carlos ever did. Knew what we all wanted, knew how to get it. Serena was probably the last one he brought on. And Jimmy was his biggest obstacle before that. So when party A suddenly takes care of party B for you, you find yourself eager to get acquainted.”

“Shit, I guess so.”

Nick is looking at me again, but I’m watching the fog build on the window in the growing heat of morning. 

//////

I slide my scalpels into the disinfectant bath and strip away my gloves, just as someone comes barging through the door. I look over my shoulder and see a woman who reminds me of an old woman’s geriatric dog. Her shoulders are obvious, her nose is crooked, her clothes are few. A purse hangs from her shoulder like a chain-strung pendulum.

“Where the fuck is Marco?”

“Hello Julia. Have a seat, won’t you?”

I pull my mask down and pull a stool up alongside the freshly cleaned table, across from another, which after a moment’s hesitation, she takes. Her faux bravado is crumbling already, but she pouts proudly.

“What’d you do with Marky? You kill him, like Jimmy?”

I sigh and shake my head.

“Marco comes and goes all the time, Julia. I don’t ask where, long as he doesn’t make it my problem. He’s not coming home lately?”

She looks me over, then slumps and nods.

“He’s been gone a whole day now.”

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose.

“You asked Captain about this?”

“N-no, I don’t… I don’t talk to Captain much. Or, I guess, he don’t talk to me.”

I suppose that makes some sense. Once Captain loses interest in a girl enough to let one of the guys lay claim to her, she might as well not exist to him. I suppose there’s a chance Captain doesn’t even know Julia is still alive. It doesn’t matter to him. I stand and kick the floor.

“Alright. Let’s visit Captain. He’ll want to know. Last I heard, Marco was on the job.”

The way Julia’s eyes go from glaring to shining is enough to make someone go all warm and fuzzy, but I’m too busy putting on my coat to really soak in the feeling. I scribble out a note, and am about to press it to the scale bowl, when its intended recipient pushes through the door.

“Lady Serena! How goes- Oh, Lady Julia, what brings you… here?”

Mick pulls his sunglasses off. Julia trots over and gives him a big hug, before looking up at his face with big wet eyes.

“Marco is missing, Mick! He ain’t come home in a day!”

“Shit, that ain’t right…”

He comes over and unzips his bag, somberly loading his cargo and glancing at me.

“I haven’t seen him since yesterday, I suppose you h’ain’t either?”

“Nope. Definitely weird. First time he’s left me alone in days.”

“Shiiit. Alright. Time to talk to boss man.”

And so we head up the stairs, me followed by Mick, Mick clung to by Julia.

//////

Mickey opens the door, and I head in, my chin held high. The main room is a cage of wealth; thick persian carpets, authentic wood furniture, guns and knives all over the walls. A fireplace crackles in the center of the far wall. Facing it, sitting in a large walnut armchair, is Captain.

Maybe the name comes from some rank he’s held in his life, or maybe it comes from his attire. He wears a thick wool sweater and tight jeans, and has a revolver strapped to his hip. When he turns to look, I can almost see my face reflected in a foggy grey eye. His salt and pepper hair seems just right to go with the knife scar along his cheek and through his eyelid.

“Serena. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I shove my hands in my pockets and look past him to the bookshelf, idly reading a few titles and authors before meeting his calm, smiling face again.

“Marco’s been gone awhile. None of us has seen him in a day.”

Captain looks past me in turn, and lays eyes on Julia, surmising just how unusual my statement is. He refocuses.

“Marco wouldn’t have turned tail and run. He knows better. You know where he went?”

“Nick-”

As I say the name, its owner pushes through the door behind us, and grins in a controlled surprise. He shrugs and gestures that I should go on.

“Nick said Marco took a job, and he hasn’t brought me anything since then. So.”

Captain turns his eye on Nick, who shrugs.

“Marco, huh? He pulled the number before me, and hit the road. Haven’t seen hide nor hair since.”

Captain breathes in and out a few times, then stands and faces us, his hands clasped behind his back. I study the ice in a glass of what I suspect is scotch, sitting on a table beside the chair.

“Okay. Nick, take Serena, go after him, see if he needs help bringing in his number. Mick, finish your dropoff, then take Julia home. If he doesn’t turn up in the next four hours, I want the three of you back here. I’ll have Ratty go check the canal.”

He waves his hand, and we are dismissed. We have left the room before he has finished sitting back down.

//////

Nick turns the car into the lot and looks up through the windshield just after he finished pulling into a space.

“Geez, what a shithole. Think I came here back when I was on the force.”

I follow his eyes and look at the apartment building, squeezing the knife in my pocket. All the concrete and rust creates a pretty clear image of the income bracket for each of the occupants. Just ahead, a pair of young men smoke and talk loudly, laughing at intervals. We get out of the car. We get onto the sidewalk, and I look about. I recognize an old beat-up sedan with a spoiler, and point it out. Nick clicks his tongue and nods.

“Well, he made it here.”

He straightens his coat and walks confidently towards a side exit, and studies the electronic lock for a moment, before waving me over. I arrive beside him, and study a small scar on his chin, before watching him kick the plastic box clean off the wall and tugging the door open. He grins and waves me in.

“I’ve definitely been here before.”

I blink at his words, and enter the stale air. Tile floors, dingy lightbulbs, thick metal doors. I watch a roach scuttle into a gap between the wall and the floor, leaving a smear of an unidentifiable grime under it. Nick joins at my side, uses a finger to collect dust from the wall, and starts for the stairwell. I follow.

We go up six stories, and neither of us is particularly winded, but we pause at the landing all the same, collecting ourselves for whatever comes next. Nick draws his gun, checks the magazine and chamber, then racks a round.

“Alright, come on.”

We enter the hall, and creep deeper into the moldering inferno. A door with ‘605’ etched into the tiny knocker awaits us. Nick ushers me behind him, and gets ready to kick the door, before stopping, and nudging it open with his foot.

“Huh.”

He pushes in, and I follow.

The apartment is dense, stacked with newspapers, boxes, bins, and strangely, small iron lockboxes. There is a terrible smell coming from something nearby. I face a coffee table covered in loose pages, with five of the metal boxes on it. I pick one up and shake it next to my ear. Something moves in the box, continues moving when I hold it still. Something alive.

“Oh. fuck.”

I set the box down and look at Nick, who grimaces.

“Very far gone, then. Fuck, Marco.”

We reunite, and move deeper still, navigating the hoard of keepsakes. The smell gets worse. We hang a left, and arrive at a door, which Nick pushes open, his gun ready. I watch it swing.

A dining room adjacent to a kitchen that festers with maggots. Flies and larva create a horrid scene of writhing, swarming, squirming. At the far end, a figure sits, hunched over a table, over a plate of something that moves and jerks. Nick approaches, I follow.

A man, dark grey of skin and white of hair. His eyes are yellowed, and his teeth are black. He allows Nick to come right up next to him and press his gun to his temple. He begins to say something in a voice like a drowned gurgle, but the gun fires, and silences him. Nick holsters the pistol, and I come closer. I stare at the body, seeing for the first time something that Marco has described before. The ashy skin becomes pristine pale pink, the white hair darkens and becomes sandy blonde, and the teeth regain their whiteness. He looks perfectly preserved, as if he is sleeping. I look over at his meal. A human hand, still dark grey, wriggles and clenches madly, held in place by a long nail, probably ejected by the nailgun lying next to the corpse’s feet. The man still has both his hands. Nick sighs and looks around, clamping a handkerchief over his nose and mouth.

“Fucking Necro. Clearly a self-mutilator. Looks like we’ll need the hazmat squad, too. I’ll make the call, see if you can find Marco nearby?”

I nod and retreat from the rancid room, returning to the stifling apartment. I ignore the gently rattling iron boxes, and push through the only other door I can find in the apartment. A bedroom swamped in personal belongings. Broken picture frames, scattered chess pieces, a fallen stack of opened envelopes. The refuse of a life. There is another door. I nudge it open and peek through the door. A bathroom. I stare at a bathtub whose basin is stained the color of rust. A hairdryer lingers in the ruddy brown, still plugged into the scorched wall socket. A straight razor sits precariously on the edge. I sigh and close the door.

A closet, mostly undisturbed, full of coats and sweaters, with a dresser filled with clothes. No Marco.

I return to the door to the kitchen, and find that Nick has retreated to the living room, and is just closing his phone. He looks at me, my solitary state, and furrows his brow.

“Kid’s not here?”

“No sign.”

He looks over to a window smeared with newspaper pages. I find myself watching a little bronze chest turn in a circle that might take an hour to complete. Nick huffs.

“Okay, well, Marco never made it here, clearly. Want to canvas the neighbors? Ask if any of them heard anything yesterday?”

I shrug and pointedly look to a clock on the wall. Nick takes my meaning immediately.

“Fair enough. Shouldn’t keep the old man waiting.”

We wade through the filth and exit the apartment, distant sirens beginning to announce the approach of a hazmat team. Nick curses and heads back in, then comes out, carrying a black bag over his shoulder. I watch him slam the door shut behind him, see the little knocker bump against the ‘605’ plaque. Something clicks in my head, I remember seeing Marco hold a little leaflet of paper, turning it in his fingers.

“Oh. Fuck.”

I begin to run for the stairwell. Nick calls out behind me, but I cannot wait. I slam through the door, jog down the steps. I hear the door slam and reopen behind me, even as I shove my way into the floor below. The sirens are growing closer.

I thump down the hall and finally stop at a door, heaving breath. I stare at the little knocker.

“509. Marco, you and your lazy chicken scratch.”

I press my ear to the door and still my breath. Silence. I push gently, and the door swings- the frame is damaged, someone has broken in before me. The same layout as above, infinitely more tidy. I creep in, taking my knife out and unfolding the blade. I hear something. Muffled voices. I glance. The sound doesn’t come from the kitchen. I turn, and approach the bedroom door, and listen intently. Repeated shuffling, grunting, heavy breathing. Something squelching. I bite my lip, and slowly turn the knob, and open the door to look. I cannot believe what I see.

Marco. He’s there. He’s tied to the bed, and he’s buck naked, a rope in his mouth, restraining his voice as he struggles to bring his hands closer to him. I hear another sound, from the bathroom. Water, a faucet running. Humming. I flinch as a figure in a bathrobe emerges from the side door, a heavy set man holding a riding crop.

“Now now my little chick, how long before you remember not to struggle? Daddy doesn’t like it when you struggle.”

Marco sobs, and writhes even more, kicking his feet, which I now see are also restrained, tied to the bedposts. There is a lot of dried blood on the left side of his face. The other man comes to the foot of the bed and drops his robe.

“God delivered you to me, little chicky. But God will understand if I have to cut out your tongue so you don’t upset the neighbors, yes.”

Marco is screaming into the gag. I’ve had about enough of this scene. The man shuffles onto the bed, nearly losing his balance. His hands, thick with cholesterol and swollen knuckles, clutch Marco’s feet. I’m coming closer. Marco doesn’t seem to see me past his distress. I can smell the man, an unpleasant cocktail of cologne and pheromones, sweaty and excited. I gaze over his shoulder at the scene he has created, before staring at the nape of his neck.

I take his shoulder, feel him go stiff, and watch his head turn as I plunge the knife firmly into his back. I feel a sort of tension leaving me as I drag it through his skin, watch it parting his flesh. I’m… warm. His blood spatters me with an intensity much unlike that of a corpse’s. I tighten my grip on his shoulder as he flails, trying to turn to face me, unable due to his awkward position on the bed. Marco is silent, watches me eviscerate his captor. The knife, my artificial influence, only continues, ruining muscles, snapping tendons. I withdraw from the horizontal streak I have made, then plunge in again, this time lower. I can remember where all the tendons hide, all the key muscles reside. The man is becoming limp, helpless. His ejected blood does not help. I pull the knife forward and put my arms around him to drag it through his belly. His intestines come spilling out, and he falls back against my chest. I am suddenly repulsed, not simply by his touch, but by my act, and so I step back and allow him to tumble to the floor, dragging his guts with him.

Marco stares at me. I falter, then set to cutting through his restraints, starting with his hands. I’m breathing quite heavily. He can address his feet himself. But he starts with his mouth. It’s times like these that really make me question his intellect.

“Serena?”

“Yes, Marco?”

I wipe my knife on the side of the bed. I’ll need to disinfect it, and my hands. I head for the bathroom, aware that Marco is finally working on freeing his feet to follow.

“Serena, I-”

“There’s no need to talk about what just happened. I won’t tell Julia what I saw.”

He is quiet. I rinse my hands, and examine my coat. I’ll need to make him pay for a new one.

“Ah… Uh, then… Thanks, I guess.”

He wanders off, hopefully to find his clothes. I meet my own eyes in the mirror. My pupils are wide, my cheek is flecked. This is the clearest I’ve seen my face reflected in a while. I lean forward and tilt my head to one side, watching my nostrils flare and shrink, my lashes flutter. I don’t recognize her, this creature with such a violent gaze, these proud cheeks. A stranger that I have passed on the street, perhaps. Maybe I’ve seen her studying me through the mirror while I apply my lipstick. I back away from her, and return to the bedroom.

It’s still lying there, the cadaver that I created. Blood is sinking into the carpet. Marco stands at the door, buttoning his jeans. I push past him and into a living space that is extraordinarily lavish, considering the state of the building. I hadn’t noticed on my way in, but there are oil paintings leaning against the walls, and a handful of sculptures in corners. It feels less like a gilded suite and more a storeroom for contraband. A latex suit with a ball gag is being worn by a marble statue. Marco comes up behind me, and I look him over, before leading the way out into the hall.

“That guy’s gonna turn, isn’t he?”

“Almost certainly.”

“I saw him using.”

I shrug. It’s not unheard of for eccentrics to abuse drugs, and to seek rehabilitation. In another time, there were treatment centers for such things. Nowadays, there’s a miracle drug. I shove open the door to the stairs, and let Marco pass through, throwing one final glance back to the door. I reason, with no small amount of certainty, that Ratty will be the next to enter that room. 

I tuck my knife into my pocket, and pull a small cellphone from another. The silvery thing is pristine, nearly unused. I pop it open, and type into the keypad. It rings twice as I descend into the stairwell, and follow Marco to the lobby.

“Did you find him?”

“I did.”

“Good. I’ll let the others know. Thank you Serena.”

The line clicks, and I break the phone in half before tossing one piece over my shoulder. We go out the way Nick and I came. The sirens are all around us now, and I see a group of men in yellow rubber suits gathered around a box truck, bristling with high tech equipment. I toss the second half of the phone into a dumpster buzzing with flies before leading Marco over to Nick’s car. The latter is chewing gum and watching the Hazmat team prepare to enter the complex. He notices us, and claps Marco on the shoulder before looking at me. That he doesn’t ask Marco his side of the story does not surprise me.

“Found him in another apartment. Little old lady had him tied up in her living room, punched his clock with a five-iron when he entered. I’ll send Ratty to clean up.”

Nick laughs and shoves Marco teasingly. Marco just stares at me. I have a bad feeling I’ll be seeing even more of him for a while. Or, if I’m lucky, a whole lot less. Marco takes out his cigarette case and cracks it open. I hold out a hand, and after a moment’s consideration, he puts one in my hand before pulling his own. I place the end in my mouth, and wait for him to light it.

///////

My hands are deep in another body when Marco comes through the side door, lugging a black bag. The third one today. I gesture with my chin, and he lays it out on a shiny new table, courtesy of Captain. He wipes his forehead, and comes over, watching me work for a moment.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s new.”

I let him wonder whether I am replying sarcastically to him or remarking on the grey, lumpy liver I am pulling from the corpse. He doesn’t seem particularly bothered.

“Serena, I-”

I lay the liver on a tray and look at him directly, daring him to speak the words on his tongue. He seems to choke on them. Away he looks, and back to work I go. Chart, body into cabinet, cleaning. I look up, and he’s still here. He’s helping, cleaning and organizing my tools for the next customer. Fine.

“What did you want?”

I strip off my gloves and press my knuckles to the table, indicating that I’m ready to hear him out. He sets down the tweezers he’s holding and leans back, biting his lip.

“I’ve… been thinking I should leave Julia.”

“And you want me to… what, deliver the message?”

“No, no, I just…”

I grit my teeth and wait for him to say what I know he will. The pause is nigh-unbearable.

“I’m worried, because what I do, what we do, it’s dangerous. And I’d rather she hated me than cried because I died.”

I feel my eyebrow twitch.

“Is that all?”

“Well, n-no, I also… um…”

“Marco. If change is really what you need right now, I’d start with your cigarettes. Once you’ve given those some thought, we can pick this conversation up again.”

“I didn’t say-”

“No, you didn’t.”

He blinks and taps his foot uncomfortably. He looks away. I hold steady, until he looks back. When I see the fire in his eye, I know I haven’t gotten through. It’s at that moment, seeing his stubbornness, his indignation, that I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, Marco will cross my table one day. His future becomes a single line, one I can almost see flowing out from his belly and leading him into the night. As he pushes out the door, pulling a cigarette from his case, I suppose I can see him at the center of a car wreck, broken over his steering wheel, beginning to turn gray. Then I see him laid out before me, his intestine in my hands, his lips chapped, his eyes yellowed. Then, I see a cabinet, a steel handle, and a nametag.

I drag the new bag up onto the table.