.
“Poor thing,” he says. “She never had a chance.”
“Who does?” Bernie asks peevishly. He stands up, wiping the blood and mold from his jumpsuit. “What do you think we should do with the body? Should we call the knackers or should we call the clops?”
“Let’s not call anybody for a bit,” Orel says, lifting the creature’s callused hand. He runs his thumb along the edge of the thick, yellow fingernails. “I’d like to take a closer look at her.”
MOSLEY’S BODY
The designation of Caretaker is primarily ceremonial. No one really expects that anyone will come along to desecrate the corpse in the moments following death. But even in the Hypogeum, where sentiment usually takes back seat to expediency, the importance of giving mourners something to do, something to make them feel needed, is understood. So Mosley’s eldest son stands watch by his father’s body, protecting it from harm.
After a while, two orderlies arrive. The son steps aside, and they wheel Mosley’s bed to the door. Seeing Dr. Penn’s prostrate figure, they pause, considering it. But they have received no instructions about a second body, so they continue on their way.
They wheel the body through the halls to a large elevator in a quiet corner of the hospital. They push the bed in, maneuvering it awkwardly with outstretched arms so as to avoid actually stepping over the threshold into the car. One of the orderlies reaches in and stabs the single button. The light inside the elevator begins to blink rhythmically. The orderlies stand against the opposite wall and watch the doors close.
The elevator descends, rattling through the hospital, continuing past the basement and the subbasement. It does not slow, but descends past the sewers to the very lowest catacombs of the Hypogeum. With a soft ping it opens to a dimly lit hallway with walls of bare, chiseled rock. The floor is lined with scratched and yellowed plastic mats. The gutters that run along the edges are indelibly stained dark brown. A short, hunched man in a surgical mask and a smock lumbers toward the elevator. He yanks the body off the bed. Holding the body by the ankle, the man in the smock hits a button in the elevator to signal receipt of the body. The doors bounce once against the corpse’s head before the hunched man pulls the body fully out of the way. When the doorway is clear, the elevator and the bed travel upward again.
With a single practiced movement, the hunched man slings the body over his shoulder. He proceeds down the passage, his broad feet slapping against the floor, carelessly dodging the bulbs that hang from the low ceiling. Without raising his eyes, he travels through the endlessly branching corridors until he comes to a wide room filled with bubbling vats and roaring furnaces. Other hunched men hurry to and fro, almost invisible in the steam. No words are spoken. This is the domain of the knackers, the untouchable class of the Hypogeum, despised by even the lowest quaternaries.
Mosley’s body is thrown on a polished metal table. Two men undress the body, rolling and manipulating it with the ease of long experience. The clothes are tossed into a passing laundry cart. The hair on the head and body is shaved and vacuumed though a flexible plastic hose hanging from the ceiling, where it is sucked into a long pipe. At the other end of the pipe it will be used to make rope, filters, and insulation.
Mosley’s throat, forearm, and groin are cut open. The blood rolls down the table to a drain. From there it flows to a large collecting vat where it joins with the blood of hundreds of other men and women who have died today. Some will be returned to the hospital. The rest will be used in the making of puddings, juices, and plastics.
A deep incision is made down the sternum, and a pair of metal claws descend to crack open the chest. The intestines are lifted out; their contents will be turned into fertilizer and bacteria culture. The other organs are
“Poor thing,” he says. “She never had a chance.”
“Who does?” Bernie asks peevishly. He stands up, wiping the blood and mold from his jumpsuit. “What do you think we should do with the body? Should we call the knackers or should we call the clops?”
“Let’s not call anybody for a bit,” Orel says, lifting the creature’s callused hand. He runs his thumb along the edge of the thick, yellow fingernails. “I’d like to take a closer look at her.”
MOSLEY’S BODY
The designation of Caretaker is primarily ceremonial. No one really expects that anyone will come along to desecrate the corpse in the moments following death. But even in the Hypogeum, where sentiment usually takes back seat to expediency, the importance of giving mourners something to do, something to make them feel needed, is understood. So Mosley’s eldest son stands watch by his father’s body, protecting it from harm.
After a while, two orderlies arrive. The son steps aside, and they wheel Mosley’s bed to the door. Seeing Dr. Penn’s prostrate figure, they pause, considering it. But they have received no instructions about a second body, so they continue on their way.
They wheel the body through the halls to a large elevator in a quiet corner of the hospital. They push the bed in, maneuvering it awkwardly with outstretched arms so as to avoid actually stepping over the threshold into the car. One of the orderlies reaches in and stabs the single button. The light inside the elevator begins to blink rhythmically. The orderlies stand against the opposite wall and watch the doors close.
The elevator descends, rattling through the hospital, continuing past the basement and the subbasement. It does not slow, but descends past the sewers to the very lowest catacombs of the Hypogeum. With a soft ping it opens to a dimly lit hallway with walls of bare, chiseled rock. The floor is lined with scratched and yellowed plastic mats. The gutters that run along the edges are indelibly stained dark brown. A short, hunched man in a surgical mask and a smock lumbers toward the elevator. He yanks the body off the bed. Holding the body by the ankle, the man in the smock hits a button in the elevator to signal receipt of the body. The doors bounce once against the corpse’s head before the hunched man pulls the body fully out of the way. When the doorway is clear, the elevator and the bed travel upward again.
With a single practiced movement, the hunched man slings the body over his shoulder. He proceeds down the passage, his broad feet slapping against the floor, carelessly dodging the bulbs that hang from the low ceiling. Without raising his eyes, he travels through the endlessly branching corridors until he comes to a wide room filled with bubbling vats and roaring furnaces. Other hunched men hurry to and fro, almost invisible in the steam. No words are spoken. This is the domain of the knackers, the untouchable class of the Hypogeum, despised by even the lowest quaternaries.
Mosley’s body is thrown on a polished metal table. Two men undress the body, rolling and manipulating it with the ease of long experience. The clothes are tossed into a passing laundry cart. The hair on the head and body is shaved and vacuumed though a flexible plastic hose hanging from the ceiling, where it is sucked into a long pipe. At the other end of the pipe it will be used to make rope, filters, and insulation.
Mosley’s throat, forearm, and groin are cut open. The blood rolls down the table to a drain. From there it flows to a large collecting vat where it joins with the blood of hundreds of other men and women who have died today. Some will be returned to the hospital. The rest will be used in the making of puddings, juices, and plastics.
A deep incision is made down the sternum, and a pair of metal claws descend to crack open the chest. The intestines are lifted out; their contents will be turned into fertilizer and bacteria culture. The other organs are
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