He took a half step back. Betty lunged forward again with the scalpel, her restrained right arm making the movement awkward and off balance. The scalpel’s tip sliced through his suit, just above his left pectoral.
Betty gathered her strength for another strike.
Margaret grabbed Amos’s shoulders and yanked him away from the trolley. She pulled far too hard for the confined space—they smashed into the trailer wall and fell to the floor. Amos landed on top. He kicked and kept grabbing at his throat, gloved fingers trying to reach inside the hole and tear it open, but the blood-slick PVC fabric wouldn’t give him purchase.
“Amos! Get off me!” Margaret pushed and pulled at the small man, trying to free her legs.
She looked up to see Betty slide her knees underneath her body. The girl rose up, kneeling on the autopsy trolley, right arm still trapped by the cuff. She leaned toward the cuff, then crossed her skinless left hand over the inside of her right elbow.
“Oh, God…,” Margaret hissed.
Betty yanked backward, twisting to the right, throwing all her weight against the cuff.
Her right hand slid free. Chunks of sloughed skin fell to the floor with a wet slap. Momentum carried her over the trolley’s left side. She hit the white floor, droplets of blood splattering across the autopsy chamber.
Amos’s movements slowed.
Margaret managed to kick her legs free. She pushed Amos off, then stood, her back against the trailer wall.
Betty leaned her right shoulder against the sink and pushed herself up with wobbling legs. Blood streaked her blue gown, the only clothing on an otherwise-naked body. The right side of her face was mostly cut away, black-and-white cheekbone blazing under red smears, bits of jellyish rot still clinging to what little skin remained.
Margaret just stared. She couldn’t move a muscle. She wanted to run, to scream, but she couldn’t even draw a breath.
Blood dripped from Betty’s skinless fingers. She still held the scalpel in her left hand, cradled it more than gripped it, trying to keep the stainless steel steady against exposed, blood-slick muscles.
Betty smiled. Only with the left half of her face, of course, because the muscles on the right side were mostly gone.
“You bish,” she slurred. “Lesh shee how you like it.”
She shuffled forward, trying to keep her balance, bare feet leaving bloody streaks on the white floor.
The autopsy trolley was the only thing separating her from Margaret.
Betty reached down with her right hand and rolled it out of the way. She pulled her hand back, but her right pointer finger stayed behind, stuck to the trolley in a red and black mess of rotted meat and jutting bone.
Betty half-smiled again.
She stood only three feet away.
She took a small shuffle-step forward
Margaret still couldn’t will her muscles to move, not even a bit. Her breath returned in a sucking gasp, then shot out in a ragged scream that sounded impossibly loud inside her suit helmet.
But not so loud that she didn’t hear the gunshot.
The right side of Betty’s head, the undamaged side, exploded outward in a fist-size hole that sprayed blood, brains and bone on the back wall and into the sink. She dropped like a cloth puppet.
“Margaret!”
Clarence’s voice, muffled.
“Margaret, are you okay? Did she cut you?”
She turned to his voice. He wore his black biohazard suit. Gitsh and Marcus, also wearing suits, were right behind him. Clarence’s gloved hand held a pistol, still smoking. He knelt by her side, the gun pointed down and away from her.
Gitsh’s gloved right hand held a knife, much larger than Betty’s scalpel. He cut away at Amos’s suit, slicing it open at the chest and neck. Blood sloshed out of the cut suit as if someone had wrung out a soaked towel. It splattered on the floor and on Gitsh’s feet as he reached in to apply pressure. Marcus grabbed Amos’s legs.
“Clarence, get him on the table,” Marcus said. “His jugular is cut. Gitsh, keep pressure there. Margaret, get his helmet off!”
The men lifted Amos and set him on the already bloody trolley.
Margaret found herself standing, pulling off Amos’s helmet. Gitsh’s gloved hands stayed pressed down on Amos’s neck. Blood covered Amos’s face, matted his hair, pooled in his eyes.
His wide-open eyes.
She looked at Gitsh’s gloves. There was no blood oozing up from beneath the fingers.
Amos. Margaret’s thoughts snapped back into place.
“Do exactly what I say,” she ordered. “Remove your hands on a count of three, then be ready to reapply pressure as soon as I say go. One… two… three.”
Gitsh pulled his hands back a few inches, where they hovered, ready to be put back into use.
No blood flowed.
The scalpel had punched in just to the right of Amos’s windpipe, then slid outward, slicing open the whole right side of his neck.
She couldn’t check his pulse without taking off her gloves, but she didn’t need to.
Amos Braun was dead.
SMOOCHIES!
Chelsea turned the knob ever so slowly. It didn’t make a sound. Neither did the door when she opened it. She crept into her parents’ room. Daddy was snoring. He always snored. Sometimes Mommy would go sleep on the couch, but not tonight. She must have been tired.
When Daddy snored, his mouth was always wide open. He looked silly. Mommy slept with her mouth closed.
Chelsea would have to fix that.
She tiptoed up to the bed, her pajama feet barely a whisper on the carpeting. Mommy wanted to make her go to the doctor? The doctor who poked her with stuff? The doctor who had the needles? Well, now Chelsea was in charge. Chauncey had said so. And Mommy wasn’t going to make her do anything anymore.
Chelsea stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at Mommy. Mommy had such a pretty face.
Chelsea reached out with her finger and thumb and slowly, tenderly, pinched Mommy’s nose shut. Not enough to hurt her, just enough to stop the air from going in. There were a few seconds where nothing happened, then Mommy’s mouth opened and she took in a sharp breath. Chelsea let go of Mommy’s nose and dropped to the floor, lying flat against the edge of the bed. If Mommy woke up, she’d have to look over the edge to see Chelsea down there.
Chelsea waited, but Mommy didn’t seem to move. It was so hard not to giggle.
Chelsea slowly got to her knees, then to her feet, real quiet, like it was slow motion in the movies. Her head rose up until her eyes peeked over the edge of the bed.
Mommy’s mouth was still open.
Her eyes were still closed.
She was breathing real slow.
Mommy was asleep.
Make her obey.
Chelsea nodded. She moved her head forward slowly. Chelsea waited three more seconds to see if Mommy would wake up.
One-one-thousand… two-one-thousand… three-one-thousand… Ready or not, Mommy, here I come.
Chelsea put her lips over Mommy’s lips. Her tongue caressed Mommy’s tongue. There was a fizzing sound and a feeling like putting a bunch of Pop Rocks in your mouth. Chelsea fell to the floor again, this time rolling under the bed, trying so hard not to giggle.
“Eaungh,” Mommy said. Chelsea felt the bed move as Mommy awoke and sat up fast. She made a noise that was like coughing and spitting at the same time. The bed twitched with Mommy’s sharp movements.
“Unh!” Mommy said. “My mouf!”
“Hon?” Daddy said in a sleepy voice. “Hon-bun… you okay?”