Part 10 (1/2)

They were in the storm cellar, and even with the overhead bulb, the room was dark and full of shadows where things slithered and crawled. The corpse was on the metal table now. They were just about to leave when Pete took an interest in the array of tools hanging on the wall.

”This old lady's whacked,” he said, examining scalpels, bone saws, and several long knives. ”These are morgue tools. I worked in a morgue. I know all about this stuff.” He took one of the saws from the hook. ”This here is for cutting through bone. It'll go right through a skull.”

”Aw, come on, man, put it down,” Bubba said.

”What, you scared?”

”I ain't scared, it's just freaky, that's all. Stop playin' aa””

Something shuffled behind them. They turned quickly, both nearly at the same time, and saw Floyd standing in the cellar doorway, his head tilted slightly to one side, a gaping wound in his neck. Half his forehead was missing. His ribcage was exposed and alive with maggots.

Bubba fainted.

Floyd shuffled forward, one leg twisted at an odd angle and dragging along behind him. Pete backed away. Floyd tripped over Bubba and decided to start eating him. Pete was slow to react. He didn't want to let the thing eat Bubba, but he wasn't going to make a move thinking it through.

He s.n.a.t.c.hed a hammer from the wall and lunged at Floyd, swinging the hammer in a wide, powerful arc. His aim was off and he caught Floyd's ear, sending it bouncing across the cold concrete floor.

Cursing his lousy aim, he drew back again, this time getting the hammer in a two-fisted grip and making sure his aim was dead on . . .

. . . and then he felt a sharp pain in the back of his head.

His world went dark. . . .

”This will do nicely,” Mabel said. ”Fresher skin lasts longer, you know.”

Floyd was on the metal table. Mabel leaned over him, working a needle and thread as she sewed his ear back on. Her arthritis was acting up, but she ignored the pain and kept at it.

A little pain was a small price to pay for her Floyd. She loved the mana”had loved him since they were spring chickens. She couldn't picture life without him. She'd do what it took to keep him with her, even if it meant patching him up once or twice a week.

She'd have to find new hoodlums to keep her supplied with materials now. She couldn't be digging up graves on her own, that was a fact of life.

Speaking of hoodlums, one of them was coming around. He groaned. Mabel turned his way. She'd strapped him to a gurney, one strap across his neck, one across his fat belly, and another over his legs. He wouldn't be going anywhere soon.

”What the h.e.l.l . . . ?” Pete tried to sit up. ”Get me offa this thing.”

”I swing a pretty mean baseball bat for an old woman,” Mabel said, rather proud of herself. ”I surely am sorry it turned out this way, but I couldn't have you hurting Floyd.”

Her eyes moved past Pete, over to the other gurney. Pete followed the old woman's eyes to see what had drawn her attention. He wasn't sure if he screamed or if he only wanted to scream. What he did know was that he should've taken Bubba's advice about forgetting this whole grave-digging business, but it was too late for a career change now.

Bubba's face had been peeled off his skull, there were big pieces of flesh cut away from his arms and legs, and a large portion of his stomach had been sliced away to expose raw, b.l.o.o.d.y tissue.

”Don't fret,” Mabel said to Pete. ”I won't be needing you for some time. I'll see that you're comfortable until then.”

She turned back to Floyd. ”Come on, you old coot,” she said. ”Best be gettin' to your ch.o.r.es, and when you're finished, I'll make you some of that sun tea you favor so.”

Floyd swung his legs over the edge of the table and stood up. He was a bit wobbly, but he looked better all patched up with fresh skin. Bubba's face had been sewn over what was left of Floyd's decayed features, creating a mangled, mismatched caricature of a human being.

”I'll look in on you from time to time,” Mabel promised him.

She took her husband's hand and led him from the cellar, closing the door behind her, leaving Pete to scream in the cold, damp darkness while he contemplated his future. . . .

Unholy Matrimony.

”G.o.dd.a.m.n, there's hardly a mark on this one,” Elroy said. ”She's one good-lookin' b.i.t.c.h.” He was standing in a freshly dug grave, staring down into the open coffin. A big grin spread across his pock-marked face as he admired the blonde female corpse inside. ”Beats any girlfriend I ever had,” he added, scratching the back of his head.

”She's pro'bly a whole lot livelier too,” Cracker said.

Cracker's real name was Jimmy, but most everybody called him Cracker because of the annoying habit he had of cracking his knuckles.

”f.u.c.k you,” Elroy said. ”When's the last time you had a date with anybody 'cept your hand?”

Cracker was squatting at the rim of the open grave, licking his dry lips as he stared down at the dead beauty. ”Wanna f.u.c.k 'er?” he asked, reaching down to squeeze the bulge in his pants. ”h.e.l.l, ain't n.o.body gonna know the difference. 'Specially her.”

Elroy couldn't have agreed more. There she was, looking pretty d.a.m.n fine for a dead girl, and he was feeling a little frisky. He chewed his lower lip, giving it some thought, then said, ”I get first shot.”

”Suit yourself,” Cracker said. ”She ain't goin' nowhere, and I don't mind sloppy seconds.”

Elroy unzipped his pants and climbed into the coffin. It wasn't long before he was grunting and thrusting his way to heaven. Cracker watched, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, eyes squinted against a rising curl of smoke. When it was his turn, he cracked his knuckles and climbed on top of the corpse. He spent even less time with her than Elroy. When they were finished, they went back to completing the job they'd been hired to do.

”Sick f.u.c.ks, you ask me,” Elroy said, raising the dead girl into a sitting position.

”It's money,” Cracker said. ”A man's got money, he thinks he can do any d.a.m.n thing he pleases. Turns a man 'centric, havin' all that money.”

”Yeah, well, whatever you call ita”get her legs, will yaa”sick is what it is.”

They hoisted the corpse out of the grave.

”Five hundred bucks a corpse, I'll dig 'em 'til I'm one myself,” Cracker said. ”I don't care what they do with 'em.”

”I'm with ya, bro,” Elroy said. ”Grab her feet, let's get her to the truck.”

They lifted the corpse and headed for the beat-up blue truck parked a few hundred yards away. The tailgate was down. They loaded the corpse into the truck with two they'd dug up earlier.

Cracker reached for the tarp.

Elroy stopped him. ”Almost missed this little goodie,” he said, slipping a wedding ring from the dead girl's finger. ”Can't have her spendin' eternity with another man while she's wearin' this.” He pocketed the ring. ”A man wants to get married, he oughta do it 'fore he's dead. ”Me, I ain't gettin' married, dead or alive.”

”Yeah, like I said, they get 'centric when they got all that money. Makes a man do odd things.”

”Guess so,” Elroy said, shrugging. ”Whelp, that about does it for the night, don't you think?”

”Yeah, I reckon it does. I could use a beer.”

They pulled the tarp over the truck bed and climbed into the cab. Elroy fired up the engine and threw the truck into gear.

”How's it work?” Cracker asked. ”What happens to the stiffs after we drop 'em off?”