Ransom had come to admire the young interns for their care with one another and their obvious, powerful bond, not to mention their concern for the general population. He paid little attention as Declan sewed up McAffey with the medical string—cat gut— binding the skin together in a way that made him think of a popular book he’d read entitled Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, wife to the famous English poet. He felt a chill run through him on recalling the account of the hybrid thing brought back from the dead. The unnatural condition of these bodies brought the imagery full on within his mind.
Ransom struggled to banish the bad thoughts from his mind’s eye. Ironically, the only thing that managed it in the least was to look over Thomas’ shoulder as the lad now opened up O’Toole. It always had fascinated Alastair to watch a good medical man at his surgical task. Back in Chicago, during times when not too busy, he’d sit in on dissections at the great theater built for students of the famous Dr. Christian Fenger to observe and learn. He’d also seen his lover, Dr. Jane Tewes in action there—her deft hands like a butterfly one moment, like a strong machine the next.
He longed to see Jane again, to be with her, imagined what she might look like after so many years, how she had gotten on without him any longer in her life. Perhaps she’d wisely moved on. Perhaps she’d found a good man. Jane remained his greatest loss on having to leave, or rather escape Chicago. How often had he wanted to send her and Gabrielle a letter, reveal where he was, pray that mother and daughter would join him, perhaps in Paris? His damnable logical side had always stopped him, asking what kind of life could he provide for her and Gabby so long as he remained a fugitive on the run?
Ransom had learned a good deal over the years about autopsies, and he suspected should Thomas falter or faint out, that he could in a pinch, take over for the boy—but only if need be.
The dead Mr. O’Toole’s facial features, like those of McAffey, had coalesced into a sickening grin, a gut-wrenching grimace. Still this gargoyle’s grimace gave Ransom a mild comfort in that at least this was, oddly enough, something familiar to him; familiar in so many corpses. ‘Death’s Smile’ as some called it so often accompanied the end right alongside the rattle of a final breath.
“Holy Mother of God!” Thomas erupted as a foamy, bubbling material rose from the cut he made at O’Toole’s chest, making a gurgling noise and sending Thomas backing into Ransom which caused him another start, and one hand landed in the soupy, brown matter oozing from O’Toole. The only saving grace was the glove running up Thomas’ arm and his matching leather apron. “The man has some strange fluid here like ichor… color of black tea…”
Declan joined them, and all three stared at the ooze bubbling up from the Y incision begun by Thomas. “Maybe there’s something to your theory, after all, Declan. I mean if this—O’Toole’s got some residual fluid—whatever it is.”
“Residual fluid, yes. Whatever’s devastated McAffey, O’Toole lasted longer. He managed to get out of the mine… was found behind a bulkhead in the ship. Perhaps something in his makeup, resisted the disease more vigorously than did McAffey.”
“Something in his blood perhaps?” asked Thomas.
“Blood is not the answer to every bloody question,” countered Declan.
“What about the heart? The other organs?” asked Ransom. “Are they in any better shape than McAffey’s?”
Declan shook his head. “No… wish we had time to look at the brain, eh, Thomas?”
“No time as it is.”
“Do be careful not to touch the leaking fluid to your exposed skin, Thomas.” Declan had taken a step toward his friend to emphasize the danger.
“Thank God I used the leather gloves.” Thomas had backed off, not wanting to get even the odors bubbling up from the body in his nostrils. Still, he returned to his surgical instruments and continued his incision while suddenly ordering Declan around. “Keep calm, Declan and don’t snatch away those gloves you have on.” He indicated the elbow-length gloves on Declan’s forearms and hands.
“You too, Detective Wyland.” Declan tossed Alastair a pair. “I refuse to bury you, too.”
Alastair willingly took the tight-fitting surgical leather gloves that went up and over the forearms. He’d seen similar gloves used by cattle butchers in Chicago, and while they did encumber the fingers of a surgeon, they were deemed a far safer form of defense against noxious and infectious organisms than the typical white cloth gloves surgeons preferred during an operation.
Again Thomas continued cutting, and as he did so, the dry cordwood of the exterior of the corpse cracked, crinkled, popped, and came wide, popping again as it did so. The noise alone was disturbing, but the sight proved worse yet.
He soon could see the condition of the organs, and like McAffey’s before, the organs had dried and shrunken to the point they were nearly unrecognizable, despite the soupy, bubbling brackish fluids they floated in.
“What now?” Thomas asked.
“Check the bone and the spinal cord to make the comparisons, but take care. Don’t get that unnatural fluid on your skin.” Declan made more notes in his ledger. His meticulous care with his records impressed Ransom.
Thomas swallowed hard, and took the bone cutter handed him by Ransom. With his leather bound hands literally in the soup, in a matter of minutes, Thomas snapped one of the ribs open, cut out a section, dried it of superfluous fluid, and held it up to the light for all three of them to inspect. “Bone dry inside—no fluid, no marrow,” muttered Thomas.
“I’m surprised,” replied Ransom.
Declan kept silent council on this finding. He then urged Thomas on, saying, “Now the spinal column, just as we did with McAffey. It’s vitally important that we duplicate each step.”
“It’ll be the same, Declan; I know it, and so do you—and this fluid, this is not natural… not supposed to be here, not in a body in this condition.”
“You’d think all three were dead for a thousand years,” added Ransom.
“This unusual dehydration of the body, coming as it has before decay… it’s as if all the natural process of breaking down was somehow sped up!” said Declan, chewing now on a piece of beef jerky he’d found in one of the freezers. The snack likely belonged to one of the faculty members. He took a moment to share it with Thomas, but Ransom declined the offer.
Thomas next found a spot on O’Toole’s spinal column, and the cutters sent up the snapping sound that Ransom was beginning to detest. Then came a second cut. With forceps, Thomas lifted out the section he’d taken and held it up to the overhead light.
“Again nothing… dry as desert air.” Thomas placed the section of spine the length of a thumb onto a metal plate for later tagging.
“We need a sample of the brackish fluid pooled in the body,” said Declan, and Ransom grabbed up an empty small jar and handed this to Thomas. Declan then lifted a slide, “and I want a look at this muck under the ’scope.”
Thomas scooped some of the brownish-to-black gruel from where it had bubbled and pooled; he captured a heaping specimen in the jar. Declan, leather gloves still in place, took a smear of the stuff for his slide. He rushed over to the microscope and began working the scope to get a clear magnification. With his eyes still on the lens, he moaned, “My God, Thomas, have a look.”
Thomas stepped to the scope, hesitated a moment, and then examined the slide. He said nothing but looked up at Thomas and the two medical men exchanged a look of deep, abiding concern.
“What the hell is it?” asked Ransom, pushing between the young men—a veritable bull in a china shop here in the lab area of the surgery. Ransom took a long look at what was beneath the slide which was magnified five seven-hundred and fifty times. When Ransom looked up again, he repeated, “What in hell is that?”