Read Online The Hauntings of Playing God (The Great De-Evolution) by Chris Dietzel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Chris Dietzel
Tags: Literary, Science-Fiction, Literature & Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Literary Fiction, post apocalyptic, Dystopian, Metaphysical & Visionary
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package—bed and body and dirty sheets—and hauls them outside to the industrial-sized incinerator.
On its way there, the forklift rumbles over knee-high weeds, shakes back and forth over potholes and cracks in the pavement. A pavement she can no longer see because everything is covered with prickly grass, dandelions, and leaves, a jungle that reaches up to the forklift’s tires.
It has been done this way for years. Even when there were ten caretakers left, six women and four men, they were incapable of carrying the bodies. The forklift is a necessity.
Indeed, the machine would make many of her other daily chores easier if she were willing to use it for those purposes. It could help in flipping each Block over. It could carry boxes of nutrient bags and dirty diapers. But she knows the more she uses the forklift the sooner it has a chance to break down, and without it she would have no way to transport the dead out of the building, so she doesn’t tempt fate by using it more than she absolutely has to.
She learned valuable lessons from watching George operate the machine. Mainly: always take an extra minute to get the forklift into position. Of course, there was the final Block he tried to carry away, which had fallen to the ground, its skull sounding like a baseball being dropped onto a sidewalk from three stories above. But even before George’s eyesight had failed him, the man had always been impatient to get the job done. How many times had she and Elaine watched as the forklift rammed its arms under the bed, hoisted it up, and then watched as the bed teetered to one side? Instead of finishing his job quickly, George had to lower the bed back to ground, reposition the forklift, and try and try again. The dead bodies jiggled like unenthusiastic dancers as the forklift lurched back and forth. It wasn’t something you could easily forget.
George never failed to let out a string of curses. Elaine acted like she wasn’t paying attention. Morgan, every time she saw the scene unfold, would want to start crying. Why couldn’t George realize the bodies were already dead, that it didn’t matter how quickly they were removed from the building?
And so Morgan takes her time when she is the one operating the forklift. With her behind the controls, the metal arms pick up the bed, Justin’s body still atop it, and carry it across the facility. The other Blocks offer a moment of silence. One of their own has fallen. It is a solemn occasion.
At the incinerator, she pulls a lever and watches the bed rise to the same elevation as the incinerator’s feeder. Once in position, she moves the forklift closer. The bed and the body are both consumed in fire.
The body is engulfed in flames, quickly turns to ash. The bed takes much longer. She gives thought to standing near the incinerator as the bed’s metal frame melts away to nothing, the body already gone, but she cannot do this. She cannot bear to see a spider missing one of its legs or a common housefly stumbling around with only one wing; there is no way she can stay near the flames as they erase something, even a piece of furniture, because it was home to a life she was supposed to protect.
There are sixty-three Blocks now. The result is a facility with perfect rows and aisles, the cots all perfectly lined up, but with one bed missing at the end of quadrant 4. Now that Justin is gone, she wishes she could forget about the life Elaine had created for him. This act she had to perform would have been easier, somehow, if he had been a shell of a person rather than a great mountaineer. Could she send a mannequin to the inferno? Easily. Could she send Reinhold Messner? No chance.
She wishes the voice Elaine had created for him—crisp and clear, nothing mumbled, everything spoken with an intensity—could be quieted, that the things she spoke of on his behalf—unimaginable determination to get where he wanted to go, the breathtaking view once you get there—could be forgotten.
On its way there, the forklift rumbles over knee-high weeds, shakes back and forth over potholes and cracks in the pavement. A pavement she can no longer see because everything is covered with prickly grass, dandelions, and leaves, a jungle that reaches up to the forklift’s tires.
It has been done this way for years. Even when there were ten caretakers left, six women and four men, they were incapable of carrying the bodies. The forklift is a necessity.
Indeed, the machine would make many of her other daily chores easier if she were willing to use it for those purposes. It could help in flipping each Block over. It could carry boxes of nutrient bags and dirty diapers. But she knows the more she uses the forklift the sooner it has a chance to break down, and without it she would have no way to transport the dead out of the building, so she doesn’t tempt fate by using it more than she absolutely has to.
She learned valuable lessons from watching George operate the machine. Mainly: always take an extra minute to get the forklift into position. Of course, there was the final Block he tried to carry away, which had fallen to the ground, its skull sounding like a baseball being dropped onto a sidewalk from three stories above. But even before George’s eyesight had failed him, the man had always been impatient to get the job done. How many times had she and Elaine watched as the forklift rammed its arms under the bed, hoisted it up, and then watched as the bed teetered to one side? Instead of finishing his job quickly, George had to lower the bed back to ground, reposition the forklift, and try and try again. The dead bodies jiggled like unenthusiastic dancers as the forklift lurched back and forth. It wasn’t something you could easily forget.
George never failed to let out a string of curses. Elaine acted like she wasn’t paying attention. Morgan, every time she saw the scene unfold, would want to start crying. Why couldn’t George realize the bodies were already dead, that it didn’t matter how quickly they were removed from the building?
And so Morgan takes her time when she is the one operating the forklift. With her behind the controls, the metal arms pick up the bed, Justin’s body still atop it, and carry it across the facility. The other Blocks offer a moment of silence. One of their own has fallen. It is a solemn occasion.
At the incinerator, she pulls a lever and watches the bed rise to the same elevation as the incinerator’s feeder. Once in position, she moves the forklift closer. The bed and the body are both consumed in fire.
The body is engulfed in flames, quickly turns to ash. The bed takes much longer. She gives thought to standing near the incinerator as the bed’s metal frame melts away to nothing, the body already gone, but she cannot do this. She cannot bear to see a spider missing one of its legs or a common housefly stumbling around with only one wing; there is no way she can stay near the flames as they erase something, even a piece of furniture, because it was home to a life she was supposed to protect.
There are sixty-three Blocks now. The result is a facility with perfect rows and aisles, the cots all perfectly lined up, but with one bed missing at the end of quadrant 4. Now that Justin is gone, she wishes she could forget about the life Elaine had created for him. This act she had to perform would have been easier, somehow, if he had been a shell of a person rather than a great mountaineer. Could she send a mannequin to the inferno? Easily. Could she send Reinhold Messner? No chance.
She wishes the voice Elaine had created for him—crisp and clear, nothing mumbled, everything spoken with an intensity—could be quieted, that the things she spoke of on his behalf—unimaginable determination to get where he wanted to go, the breathtaking view once you get there—could be forgotten.
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