Rose City Catastrophe

By Richard Rose

Unsung hero of covert operations- Porter Rose- returns home to wage another secret war. This time against the citizenry; on behalf of the shadow government. While waging a private war against himself, and everybody around himself, too. While seducing the love of his life,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Plagiarize This Press
• Release date: Oct 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781087923628

Richard Rose

Richard Rose is the Artistic Director of Tarragon Theatre. Prior to joining the Tarragon in 2002, Richard was Founding Artistic Director at Necessary Angel (a position he held from 1978–2002), Associate Director for Canadian Stage Company, Director of the Stratford Festival Young Company, and spent ten seasons directing at the Stratford Festival. He has directed plays across Canada, the United States, and in London’s West End in styles ranging from the environmental to the classical. Richard is well known for developing new work, including four plays that won the Governor General’s Literary Award and nine other nominated plays. He is a four-time Dora award winner for direction and production and has had numerous nominations.

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Also By The Author:

JESUS CHRIST!

VAGUELY VIVID

BEFORE THE AFTERMATH

TOBIAS & OSAZE

TAI/DICE

SAINT ANTHONY’S FIRESTORM

TRIBAL VENGEANCE

THE ZOA

ROSE CITY REVISITED

TWO FEET UNDER

BLOODLUST PARADISE

ROSE CITY CATASTROPHE

By

Richard Rose

This book is dedicated to Mikako and Mizuki. Also to my sister and to my dear mother. All of my books are dedicated to these ladies. Even if otherwise stated.

Explosions in Troutdale

Righteous, said Eric; hooded and hanging out of the window of a large, black, older, sport utility vehicle. Resting on his arm. Drunk. Watching his tank being filled. The sound of driving rain tinkled upon the umbrella. Dylan hung the gas pump back on the rack and said, It is so ill out there, bro- we’re getting like forty feet of air on some of those ramps. Eric asked, When are you going back? A week from today. You down? Hell yes, call me when you’re about to leave. Definitely. Eric started his truck and drove away. Dylan went to the next vehicle in attendance. His moist blonde curly cues glistened in the white fluorescence and bounced on his bandanna, fitted like a headband; his black raincoat dewy from the mist in the air- he wore a retro-reflective yellow vest. The single attendant working. At 9 pm that Friday, most of the pumps were vacant.

The vehicle was a glossy black pickup truck; a smaller model, with the step wells by the bed. Fresh painted, brilliantly waxed. The owner stood out beside the door. A hulking man, in dark denim. Dark skin; like an Indian or a Mexican. A flat billed Trail Blazers cap down over his eyes. Malachi, was his name. He’d been waiting for the attendant patiently, and extremely nervously. That truck was on its last leg. In the coming days, he still needed to attend four more motorcycle classes to gain his endorsement, or else he’d be out the two hundred dollar, non-refundable fee. And the class is mandatory to gain the endorsement. Nothing ever went right for Malachi. There was no way the truck would survive the weekend. He said to Dylan, Hi. I have a question for you. Is it ok if we leave the engine running while you fill her up? If I kill the engine there is going to be a huge problem. I’ll be stuck at this pump if we can’t get her started again.

Dylan smiled, and threw his head back a little, laughing, Oh, alright. That’s fine. Happens all the time. We’re not supposed to, except every attendant in the city does it occasionally, for one reason or another. Thank you. This truck is nothing but problems. I’m so tired of it. I had a car like that; you fix one thing, and something else breaks immediately thereafter. You can’t fix this truck? I think every vehicle is a money pit. I can’t afford to dig this hole deeper than I already have. Here. Put twenty dollars in? Malachi said, handing over the bill, which Dylan took and crammed into his pocket. Regular? Yeah. Regular. Dylan entered the dollar amount into the machine, lifted the pump, pressed the button, opened the tank cover, twisted the gas cap off, and crammed the nozzle down in. Except, as he did, the metal of the nozzle sparked at the mouth of Malachi’s tank. With a woof, a turbulent plume of flames erupted. Dylan threw the handle away, harmlessly, having not yet pulled the trigger. Noticing that Malachi had fallen over, and was scrambling to his feet, Dylan dropped to the ground and reached to the cover, to slap it closed, except it was too late; before his fingers touched, the fire had flown down the tube and into the tank. Malachi had risen to run off, except, the blast caught him and threw him out on his face, into the street, almost. Dylan was blown into the pump itself at tremendous, backbreaking, velocity. The sprinklers immediately began spraying their foams. Much of the truck was aflame; tires, wires, the interior; glass blown out. The gas pump hose; melting under a thrown and alighted truck bed liner. Inside, the clerk- Lisa- called to the few customers, Get out now! Everybody run! As she bolted for the back door, the three teenagers buying munchies went for the front door. A petite and beautiful white girl, and a shaved head Latino player in sweats and a wife beater, and another fatter Latina girl; none of whom were dressed for the weather, yet had walked there from nearby and so were soaking wet. The girls screamed, all scrambling toward the door, plowing through, and B-lining for the sidewalk and the cover of the trees, except they couldn’t make it there.

The hose had melted, and the fumes ignited, running through a jarred open channel, back into the reservoir, which then exploded fiercely, blowing a hole in the earth down under that pump, quaking and knocking the fleeing patrons to the cement, and blowing out every safety mechanism between the reservoir and 21,000 gallons of gasoline in one of three underground tanks. This first tank ignited with enough ferocity to decimate and blow out the other two tanks; another 30,000 gallons of gasoline, and 40,000 gallons of diesel- all within seconds. The first explosion blew the quickie mart apart like a kicked sand castle, along with much of the ground beneath and surrounding; wrenching the umbrella from half of its foundations, and arching it up and halfway over on itself. A sonic boom blasted the rain into an orb of superheated vapor. The echo remaining audible as a fiery and ashen mushroom cloud billowed up into the falling torrents; showering many with death. The next two explosions occurred literally simultaneously with two merged orbs of shockwaves blowing outward across vast spaces; taking out the remaining gas pumps and the remaining foundations of the umbrella so that it became airborne, lifting on the firestorm, sailing through the air and into the sky. Landing on multiple vehicles in a packed grocery store lot four blocks away. Power lines, streetlights, the immediate neighbor’s two story home, half of the next neighbor’s duplex, much of the road to the west and south, and the cars upon the asphalt, and the corner plaza to the north- a cell phone store and a check cashing establishment, specifically- all of it, decimated. Over a half dozen more homes drenched in the raining hellfires. Beyond the blast radius, deluges of burning fuels had gone in all directions. The shockwave shattered the windows of cars, businesses, and homes outwards through multiple blocks. The towering inferno expanded and it rose- visible from the ground for miles around.

Troutdale erupted in a symphony of sirens. Flashing lights; purple- from the helicopter’s perspective- surging toward the fiery heart of darkness; down mainlines of interstates, avenues, and boulevards. Toward the fireball of hellish proportions. Buildings burning against the rains. In the streets, at the intersection of Stark and Kane, what bodies weren’t incinerated were torched, mangled in cars, crushed, or dismembered. Eileen had been walking home from Econ, soaked, excited for the weekend. That magical time when obligations and ambitions fall by the wayside, if only for a little. As she cowered against the deafening blasts, the rain became burning diesel fuel. Hitting her in the face like lightning. Catching her entire left flank. Melting the clothes and flesh from her roasting musculature. Still, she kept moving. Choking on the smoke. Smelling herself. Disconnecting from who she was, or what she was, knowing these would be the last steps she’d ever take. Refusing to drop. No pain, instead; flashing memories, a fountain of her identity spilling into focus. Birthdays with family. Birthdays with friends. Birthdays alone. With the splendor of flickering candlelight all around her. Funerals for family and friends. Dying alone. With the splendor of flickering candlelight all around her. Weddings for family and friends, never her own. Loveless, with the splendor of flickering candlelight all around her. Like a dream, her feet floated down the sidewalk as though they were made of air. With no sensations except utter disbelief, her arms held out in front of her, the hair scorched from her head. Families escaping burning homes- hauling their most important belongings into their yards- stopped to watch her walking along, step by stuttering struggling step, with a face of utter grief, despair, agony, and torture, too traumatized to wail, too shocked to howl. Her knees dropped to the ground. Her body crashed face first. She began to seize. Vomiting bile. Her thoughts no longer racing. Whatever she was, dead or alive, she had no idea. Although, soon she would know full well.

Down the sidewalks, in the firelight, edging back from the heat, residents and passersby gathered to look on as emergency medical services and fire trucks descended on the area. Sirens approaching from every direction. Every single siren melding into a single singing melody over the roaring rhythm of the accident. One survivor- a disheveled homeless man- screamed for help, Help! Help! tortured by his cooked flesh. Wretched and grotesque screams drowned out by the thunder of the burning. A tall and scrawny black man with broken ribs and wrist had been hit by a car, while fleeing. He looked on mystified, paying no mind to his injuries. A crater. Where the gas station used to be. Twenty feet deep in places. Pools of fuel had gathered along the bottom. Deep oranges and reds licked against the condensed and billowing black smoke, carrying over the ground to wherever the gusting wind took it; causing further panic with people running- running out into stalled traffic; screaming and panic. There were onlookers falling to the ground, suffocating after the noxious smoke washed over them. To escape the ghastly substance, Jack- the landscaper, shoved Carlos- the cook, down onto a car hood. Knocking the wind from him. Carlos, as he tried to catch his breath, caught two lungs full of airborne diesel particulates, and so fell to the ground coughing, choking, and gasping, crawling to the nearest puddle to drink. To inhale oily rainwater. The headlights of traffic; outshined by the disaster lighting up the night sky. The sizzling carcasses of victims become exposed as the fires recede some; faces melted to the pavement, contorted, their fat boiling; popping and bubbling- ignored, at first, while the living were tended to. Dogs could be heard barking all the way to the southwest hills. News helicopters broadcast footage live from a distance as a medical copter landed in a lot nearby and a police helicopter shone down a powerful spotlight. Rescue vehicles cast flood lights and high beams all throughout the danger zone. Firehoses unleashed streams of foam onto the crater and onto the flared up buildings. Structure fires began to burn out, smuldering; the crater burned against all efforts. The supply of fuel remained pooled beneath. Rain battered the scene indifferently. As EMS drove survivors away in traction in ambulances, the fire fighters succeeded in suppressing what remaining fires burned outside of the flaming pit. Police cleared onlookers further and further away from the wafting fumes. And with black striped yellow caution tape they cordoned off as much of the vicinity as they could. Medical crew placed white sheets over the dead, waiting on body bags.

Peril and Pandemonium

I’d just gotten out of the shower when this call came in. My hair never dried. I’m still cold. Except it is hardly cold out. Interstate-84 is plugged up for about 7 exits in either direction. I’m driving a black van, with the five pointed Multnomah County star on the doors and the word Coroner etched in gold; squeezing through the narrow breakdown lane, with orange lights flashing. No sirens. The truck isn’t equipped with any. And always needs the things. Against each passenger window of traffic, a reflection of the remaining uncontrollable plume; billowing menacingly dense. Dodging one mirror after another; I’m not looking at the thing; I see the inferno in reflections. Over the radio, I hear updates. A dozen dead on arrival. A half dozen more brought in dead. Half dozen injured. A couple critical.

‘We need these corpses out of here!’ The fire chief squawks at me.

I grab the squawker, and say, I’m at exit 16, ETA five minutes.

‘My guys are stepping on the things, you asshole.’

Sounds to me like your guys are the assholes, sir.

‘Hurry the fuck up, coroner!’

Roger that.

Already the toxic odor of diesel smoke is noticeably seeping into the vehicle. I hate to bring the princess of pandemonium into this, except this is her career now. Regardless how fragile she may be. She worked her whole life to be here. This is where she belongs; the angel of death personified. I pull my phone out and dial Morticia. Ring. Ring ring. ‘Hello, Jason. What can I do you for?’ I say, A gas station exploded out in Troutdale, by Mt. Hood CC. I need help hauling bodies. Can you get the hearse out here?

‘Fuck yes, fuck yes! I can get the hearse out there! Text me the address.’

Ok, these bags are going to be messy, so, keep that in mind. Take the funeral equipment out. We’ll need all the space we can get. And, please hurry; I’ve got the fire chief projecting his insecurities all over me.

‘Aye yai yai. I am on the motherfucker. Hang up and text me.’

Roger that. I hang up on her, activate the phone’s voice texter, and say, 25699 SE Stark Street Troutdale 97060. Pressing send while veering off the exit ramp, alongside the rows of stuck and stalled cars. Pushing through intersections with the help of a less than cooperative citizenry. The defrosters blowing hot air. Wipers swipe water sloshing to the side. In the side mirror are the banks of the Columbia River sparkling with electricity down below. Traffic is stalled at most intersections, except for the clearances cut by my flashing. Morticia will have an even harder time, with her blue lamp siren. She will make it happen, nonetheless; intrepid, that one. The devil itself couldn’t keep her away from this place. This waking nightmare. I press through throngs of onlookers, and find cops working crowd control; plus, an opportunity to K-turn. I throw up the hood on my regulation standard retro-reflective raincoat and head out. Throwing open the back doors and snagging a pile of bags. Beyond the barking dogs, and the crying women, I hear a chorus of cherubs singing a sweetly-sorrowful opera as I lay my eyes upon Heather, in her bright orange raingear, following me with those black eyes that glimmer through high beams and floodlights; her wet hair creeping over her cheeks as she flashes me a Venusian blush. Heather, the county medical examiner, is standing-by with her staff of two medics with outstretched arms. I see two photographers- in ‘POLICE’ jackets- crawling over the scene like spiders in webs, snapping photos with flashbulbs like heat lightning. I hand a body bag to Heather’s underlings, and one to Heather, keeping one for myself. She addresses her staff, Daniel, you’re working the northwest. Katie, you’re working the northeast. Jason, southwest, and I am keeping to this quadrant over here, at least initially. Bag them and load them. Stack them in the black van and get them out of here. Go. This mysterious priestess of peril; gets me every time, her sultry allure commanding my respect. I’ve known her since I began this work, and lately she has finally begun looking at me like I am a somebody. I call to her, I’ve got the little mortician coming directly. She’ll have more space. All the better, get them where they need to go, as fast as you can. We disperse.

Firefighters gather in clusters, all over, with hoses blasting foam down at the base of the plume. Thick diesel smoke blots out the night sky. Some of us wear masks, some of us don’t. The air is sickening, except the rain is filtering. We deal. I find my first woman, scorched from head to toes, shoes melted to her feet, hairless, predominately fleshless, burnt naked, face contorted by grotesque tortures. Burned to hell. Rest in peace. Little sister. I lay out the bag beside her. Unzipped. Her body still limp. With blue dish-glove hands I place her feet into the bag and slide her in up to the waist, rain filling the bag, some. I readjust and pull at the rubbery fabric; standing over her, I lift her by the shoulders and place her in the rest of the way. Sirens wail from every direction. The heat is getting to me as I zip her up. I throw her over my shoulder and carry her away, desperate to escape the hot-zone; edging out to the shadows and cool refreshing fresh air. Toward the van, where Heather is loading her first body with the help of a fire fighter. Strained under the duress of my carry, I do my best to place the gal down gently. Heather had pulled hers- and so pulls mine- deep into the cargo space. This is what this van is for. She climbs out, placing a hand on my shoulder as she steps down. I shudder at the touch of another person- this sultry lioness- after having not been touched by anybody in so long. Still, I keep the rhythm, not skipping beats, handing her a new bag, taking one for myself, and hustling back out into the field. This situation isn’t ideal, the press conference won’t look favorably upon these aggressive measures; however, their approval isn’t our concern. Our job is to facilitate a dignified passage for the remains of loved ones passed on. As in, get them the hell out of the road. A board of inquirers can’t judge what it takes to clear an area of bodies, until they’ve done the paperwork for at least one corpse, and then tried to do that paperwork for a dozen, all the while maintaining the daily requisites of their duties. It can’t be done. The bureaucracy is unrealistic and subverted whenever possible. We do our work like putting down a swine, with a bolt to the brain; we hit it hard, we hit it fast, we are in, we are out, without giving the public eye a chance to discern what has happened.

Still, a coroner’s eyes do his job for him. I will clearly discern what bodies were burned and what bodies were thrown. Back at the warehouse. Battered bones or scorched flesh or both, or a detached skull. Whatever. We will figure out who each of these people are, too. Whatever comes out of each bag will tell the tale of the demise of the occupant. Photographs and firsthand accounts will clarify the rest. I can feel the snapped bones of the guy I am bagging, a sad young man, with one eye weeping and the other cooked shut, half his tattooed flesh charred black and crisp, and half relatively unharmed; half his clothes reduce to ashes. His body flew far; landing like a rag doll against somebody’s home. I’m putting him away and I am going to have to get a hand to carry his weight this long distance. Officer! I call a Mexican napoleon type cop over here and say, Take half this bag. We’re going about two blocks that way with it. Cover my place, Myers. I have to walk this body out. Myers called back at him, I got you. We’re hauling this bony mass of deadweight over hoses and rubble. I am up front, upper half under my right arm and he is in back, lower half under his left arm. There are civilians snapping photographs of us. I don’t care at all. Bodies are stacking up. I count this as the seventh, and there are still plenty more, soaking under sopping white sheets turned clear. There are about ten of us gathering and hauling the deceased. I count ten bodies stacked, and another eight remaining in the field. I see the hearse pulling up, screaming like Scotland yard. Even the seventeen year old mortician has a siren. Not me, though. She backs the 1970 Cadillac up right beside the coroner van. The rear door swings open on its own volition. Morticia stands next to the open driver’s door, hooded, buttoning her red raincoat, adjusting her gloves, and wrapping a white mask on over her face. Her eyes like a Persian cat’s. The white mask has a red biohazard symbol on it. I hand her a bag, and say, Try not to have too much fun. Give me a little credit, Jason. And don’t judge. You get off on this as much as I do. Grabbing two bags for myself, I say, Somehow I doubt that. Follow me; there are few kids about your age- a couple of them about your size. Burnt one hundred percent, all three of them. Blown out across the street, through a chain-link fence, it looks like. No more than twenty feet apart. Heather stepped out from a dancing shadow, anticipating our destination, saying, I’ll help. I hand her a spare body bag. There are cops everywhere to help us carry.

We get to the bodies- a smashed in face on one, all around are badly broken bones at unnatural angles; hairless, naked, erased of faces, the foot gone off the boy- and she asks me, How old do you think I am and how old do you think these kids are? I say, You’re seventeen. They’re seventeen. Right? Yes. I am seventeen. These kids are fifteen at the oldest. How did you ever get this job? Politics. Ask me some other time. Jeeze. Quit ragging on me and stuff that corpse into that plastic bag, please? And don’t forget his foot. I look back over to Heather, who’d had one eye half on us and then looked back to what she was doing. I don’t think Heather understands our relationship. It doesn’t matter. I am in love with Heather. I don’t want her to be jealous. I know she doesn’t know. I know she knows. It’s unspoken. We would never speak of our feelings. We’re colleagues. The stakes are high out here. We’re both out here, working our dream jobs; maneuvering limbs by their joints and zipping zippers over people’s lost loved ones’ lost faces. I give a look back to the inferno, then back to the van twice as far. Three police officers are standing by. I direct the strongest looking cop toward me with a hand gesture. I’ve been working with the chunkiest of this trio. She’s got the weight of an adult man in a short doughy package. The bags have handles all over them. To help carry the deceased through this vast cordoned off area. These should be the last of ‘em. We put her down on the van’s bed. Crawling up on bodies, I drag her and then Heather’s into place here. Morticia is in her hearse adjusting her last passenger. Eighteen bodies altogether. Might be more at the hospital.

Morticia crawled and leapt out, came sauntering over, and told Heather and I, I’m out of here. I can process my six, and file your reports the day after tomorrow. I want a copy of the accident report after it has been compiled.

You got it. Call me if you need me.

K. Deuces. Bye, Heather.

Bye, Morticia, Heather said. Morticia closed her car door, lit her little red siren, and wailed like an air raid creeping away down the road. Heather, stepping into her emergency medical service’s sport utility vehicle, added, to me, PCS, now! I’ll cut you a hole, and see you at the underground. Referring to her sirens, mocking, knowing I don’t have sirens. Let’s do it! I call, slamming my back doors. I climb behind the wheel and start the engine as Heather is pulling out in front of me, blue and reds going, siren chirping wails as I pull out after her. I roll the windows down and open the air vents, hoping to escape this stench of voided bowels, steaming, combined with barbequed flesh. I’m flashing orange against the diesel smoke and debris. Slipping slowly away through gridlocked traffic parting before us. PCS refers to Portland Crematorium Services. From there we’ll send a third of these bodies out to Family Natural, probably. Maybe to Portland General, if they want them for school.

These bodies are still alive, in ways. A lot of them. We pronounce them dead. As if death is that simple, direct, or straightforward. The paperwork doesn’t reflect the reality. They’re still in there, in here, with me, having out of body experiences, I imagine. Or, reliving every single moment of their life, as their spirit dissipates; slowly and surely. Their brain’s neurons and synapses are still firing. They wheeze, gasp, piss, release gas, lactate, if applicable... They are dead, except, death is different for each of them. For each of us. Life goes somewhere when we go. Back to the source, I guess. Whatever the source is. The source is us, was them. That is who we are, what we are. Going, then gone. Although, we all know, some of them hang around. For one reason or another. They never leave. My passengers tonight suffered, sadly. Freak accidents can be unimaginably harsh. Had to be someone dying there, or it wouldn’t’ve been a thing. One day, the reaper comes for each of us. Society may be radically altered for the better without these people living in it; maybe, just maybe, because maybe… where they were lost, others will find themselves, and vindicate this loss for humanity. You never know. Doesn’t hurt to be optimistic. I don’t even get paid to do this work. The money comes later, through status and promotion from assistant district attorney to district attorney. I’m used to dead bodies, by this point; I’ve never seen as many as tonight, not even at the hospital, and they’re up to their eyebrows in the things, usually. I feel sick to my stomach. Like I could pass out. I have water in here; we’ve broken through the traffic and are cruising along Stark. Way over the speed limit. Searching the pile of things on the passenger seat; briefcase, cleaning supplies, tool-bag, and… water. It helps. Some. Residual death. So much death in one place. Gets in your lungs. In your pores. If that rain weren’t there, I would be in a hospital bed right now.

Mayweather Mortuary

Rain water splashed up from the road against the undercarriage of the hearse. The car cruised like a boat floating. Weighted down by flesh, bone, and soul. Filthy bags of warm newly-deads. The deceased, remaining with their bodies; some. With nowhere else to be, urgently. They had funerals to attend to. Denial to carry on. Minds to entertain as they slip ever further away. Soon they won’t be the same. Their identities becoming more and more erased. Expectations to confront, in that ultimate thereafterward. Realities to come to terms with. Mary always knew she would go to hell. For her transgressions against god, for which there were so many, and when all she ever wanted to be was a good Catholic, and never able to live by her own beliefs; she would burn eternally for her weakness. The pain; the horrible horrible hellfire- to be endured for all eternity! Where else would she be at, with her skin burned away, in total darkness, unable to breathe, without breath, without a heartbeat. With no blood flowing through her brain. Remaining, still, as if paralyzed. Her pain, as unrelenting as knowing that she’d been condemned to damnation. Her hell, her home, her hurt. Knowing; were any other girl her, they would have done the exact same as she did. Beside her, aglow in gold, a man named David, on his way to heaven. There already, in that ultimate hereafter. Wafting in place. Feeling the hugs of since passed loved ones. Grandparents! All four of them! He couldn’t be happier; in that cloud, with the rays of sunshine pouring upon them from on high. Praise Jesus Christ of Nazareth! Praise the father, the son, and the holy ghost. Beneath them, was the body of a store owner, a godless man, who’d been thrown by the blast. And he, he was not in the car; his body was, still, though. Steve- the black man charred rare and juicing- had gone far and away, to Spokane- where his ex-wife and children were, so that he could look in on them, and see them; if that were the last thing he ever did. A stepfather raising his kids. All the better; now that it didn’t matter. No reason to be bitter; that life- Steve’s life, was over, and what came next he did not know. Could not think. Could not fathom. Could not say. Could not speak. Could not speak out, speak down, speak in silence, or even give a whisper, from his corner up there by the cobwebs. He’d say, ‘I love you. Goodbye. I love you.’ Not feeling like himself- he had ended. David was over. What he was he couldn’t say beyond that; didn’t know. Content to remain in observance of what was once his family. Disinterested in the rest- in himself, who he’d been. Them three little girls. Their mocha flesh. An honest gal raising little ones and getting by. A new father, another dark man. With a good job, who didn’t drink to excess. Steve had been dead to these girls for years. Ever since the littlest was born. There they’re gathered together, in front of the television screen. Haven’t even heard about the explosion yet. He wanted to be there when they received the news. He could wait, with nowhere else to be, and the resolve of his soul, to watch after his daughters. Better than he ever could in life. No more restraining order no more. Really, it weren’t so bad after all. With his carcass cities away in a bag of urine and shat pants; being hauled down into a basement along with five other stiffies. Placed, in their bags, into six refrigeration units.

A child prodigy who studied the dead since she first opened her eyes; Morticia is the part-owner and operator of Mayweather Mortuary. Those wide eyes sparkle, twinkling in flashes of lush lashes. Her straightened black hair tied back in a tail; her perfect widow’s peak is her favorite attribute about herself. Her upper lip is slightly cleft; her single imperfection and she knew it made her even more beautiful. More desirable. It made the boys want to kiss her, desperately wanting, and she would never let them. No man could touch her until they’d proven worthy, and no man could prove worthy. They were too weak, every last one of them. She’d never met a real man in her life. She’d only ever kissed one single boy, Geoffrey, a sweet boy from years ago, whom she remembered fondly, although, vaguely. Right then, with that first and only kiss, she knew; her kisses were for none other than the one man who could give her love equal to that she would have to give him. She knew the next man she kissed would be the only man she would ever kiss again.

The dead were always her preferred company. Because they never mistreated her, or molested her with their sight. Not to discount her lovely assistant, who is very much alive. They’re down there with the bodies together. Two examining tables and six bodies. Six. Four lined up on shelves, one beside the other, ready to be shoved into storage. Two on the tables.

Her and her assistant, Roxy- fifteen years, blonde with a pixie cut, and cherubic in size and stature- are taking photographs and filling out paperwork. The first thing they have to do is identify the bodies. A relatively simple process which there are multiple ways to accomplish. Two of the six bodies were carrying identification on their person. Two of the men. The women would have had their IDs in their purses and neither of them came in with any possessions; presumably the police would find their belongings and mark them as evidence, should said belongings still exist. One of the males had had his pants burned away, and presumably his wallet, too. The other male, maybe he just didn’t carry a wallet. Either way, there were multiple ways to ascertain who exactly those four strangers were. The fingerprint scanner worked almost every time; a handheld electronic device linked to the social security databases. And other federal databases, too. Put the finger on the reader, hold it there, and push the button. Mary Montgomery? That’s a nice name. Roxy said, Hey! She has the alliteration on the ‘M’s, like you do; Miss Morticia Mayweather. I realize that. Similar names, her and I. Too bad all hers is good for is carving into rock. Too bad. They made their documentations and shoved Mary into her cooler. Moving on to the next. Soon, they knew all they needed to know about each of the intakes, they’d shoved each into their respective holes, and were prepping the room to prep the bodies. They had a decent measure of work to be done that night. They’d need to collect toxicology specimens, blood samples, and various tissue samples; and aspirate each corpse. Drain each one. Embalm each one. And clean each one. Prep for funerals as needed. Burn the rest.

Who’s first?

Chicks before dicks.

Which chick?

Holy virgin Mary motherfucking Montgomery.

Oh, the colors had captured her attention; distorting her perception; hypersensitivity to a surreal disreality. Oranges seething; infernus. Distracting from the numb and dull torture of her maddening, enraging-stifling, belittling, desperate and humbling- sorrowful condition. The blood red diesel fuel falling like rain in an unending downpour. Flash flooding her veins, her venules, and her ventricles with pain, pangs, and plight. The colors of her firestorm, her afterlife in the underworld of her suffering. They made her sob; crying dry tears. A blinding furnace to her; the chilling cave of that cooler. So, when the door opened into the bright white of the LED light, and Mary was transferred to the embalming table, she remained breathlessly agonized; running desperately in place through a blazing storm- paralyzed. And running. Running in place. Like a dream, relentlessly dizzying and- inexplicably- more frightening than blistering. Throughout the raging delirium two faces appeared over her. About to scream out to the angels of hell, to beg for mercy; Mary saw two young ladies appear over her, hideously monstrous; however inconspicuous- the dark haired one, with divine eyes, had a mouth of four interlacing pincers; interlocked flush on her face; with an hourglass pattern of blood red like lipstick on the forehead. And six eyes like rubies; three by either temple. Morticia’s arms; slender and womanly. Her hands holding scissors, and a straight razor. From behind her, rising out of the flames, a pale and delicately pleated plated tail of eight segments. Inflamed; engulfed in licking and dancing fires. With a glistening sack of fluid, protruding; a rigid stinger arched down over her perfect widow’s peak. New arms grew from her, with reaching hands, in blurs, and retracting the same way; as Morticia worked her over. The other girl, Roxy, appeared no more than two feet tall, and her human girlishness was obscured by the features of an elephant; specifically an elephant’s nose down to her Buddha belly and ears happily flapping about her shoulders. Her black Mayweather t-shirt, too small. Her frumpy blue scrub pants rippling as if underwater. Her flesh; bubblegum pink- and with wings, small wings, a not much bigger than her ears. Roxy floated, flew, and flitted in the flames, kicking her stumpy nubby legs whimsically; high into the air, upon the embers of the smoke of Mary’s eternal damnation. Mary, however, was vaguely aware that her fluids and her solids were being drained from her nether regions, out onto a stainless steel table, dripping through a strainer and into a drain. Similarly, they slit her carotid artery. Inverting the table backward to bleed her out. Translucent fluids of green and blue poured down into her from brown jars, through clear tubes; the pincers of Morticia’s face clickity clacked as they stretched- one by one, or in tandem. Her eyes, fierce with fire in the irises. From her throat, she hissed shrieks; rinsing and cleansing Mary’s scorched and flaming carcass; Mary watched the crawling hellfire licking and lapping at Satan’s grim minions, as they worked her over. Feeling far less than lucid- separated from herself; as a fine and vibrating fuzz- apart from the cold of her dead flesh. Like, if she could get more coordinated she could lift herself from her own body, and step down into the vibrantly glowing embers of the ground of that pit. Mary rose without lifting herself. Her form stood weightless. Watching the demons tend her flesh. Looking around with nothing to see beyond the inferno. With her entire form burned to cinders, she leapt and lofted down off the table. Morticia meticulously went over every inch of the body with antiseptic cleaners; scrubbing charred materials away. Roxy and Morticia spoke back and forth, conversing. Mary’s ears couldn’t process a word of their horrid tongues. The pain became real suddenly. From her toes to her fingertips, to her eyes and ears. It’d been dreamy. She began to feel that muffled raging in her nerves, seizing her by the spine. And, like that, the body she left so far behind, just over there, it called to her. ‘It hurts less here.’ And she practically dove back in head first. Where the pain numbed away again, and she appreciated the motionlessness and stillness of her corpse; embracing the opportunity to remain within her own flesh, having known the formlessness waiting for her not far off. Just over there. One more placid moment away.

Morticia stitched incisions shut, slid Mary back into her cooler, and clanked the door closed behind her. Roxy disposed of the hazardous materials- in jugs and orangish-pink bags, and sanitized and sterilized, while Morticia finished her papers at the desk in the office right out in the hall. The entire operation; vintage 1970’s. The Mayweathers had the family business restored so that Morticia could operate it as her own; that being what she wanted most her whole life, what she’d worked toward nonstop since she’d learned what death was. She had to know what no one else seemed to know. She had to know everything there was to know about what they told her was unknowable. Where the living go afterward, that ultimate mystery. What was out there, on the other side of life. Like, what came before life and what comes after life. If there was nothing, like so many were inclined to posit. She knew better, on gut instinct, except, she knew she could not truly know better. All the evidence she’d gathered; the glimpses she’d gleaned; the vast frame of reference acquired through her perspective and curiosity; there were no right answers about death. Only different answers, depending on who she asked. Saying, Yo, let’s burn! Roxy stepped out the side door for a cigarette and a moment or two later Morticia came out to join her. The building was built into a hill; loading and unloading were down around in the back, where there was a concrete wall and an inclined driveway blocking anybody on Burnside from looking down on them. Out back were three rental properties owned by her family, and beyond that was Firewood Lake. Surrounded by Laurelhurst Park. Empty at night. Supposedly. Morticia lit a lighter, touched the flame to the herb, pulled smoke through the bubbles of her glass bubbler- colored like lavas, and lifted the head to carb. Passing the piece off. Saying, Five to go. I want to fall asleep before the sun comes up. I don’t want to have to wear a mask on my eyes. I want to sleep, too. We’ll do these stiffies nonstop, one by one, done, done, and so on; we got that Mean Green Martian, we’ll order a pizza, bang these fuckers out by the book; bang bang bam bam, bitch. After a couple more rips, and tearing drags off the cigarette, the girls went back in and dug their claws into the task at hand.

The next woman, Nancy Jung; she wasn’t suffering or delusional. Calmly, and peacefully, she serenely awaited her transcendence, there in the blackness of the cooler. The door opened; pouring bright white LED light upon her. Roxy pulled her out. Nancy sat up, soulful, as dispossessed- dull and translucent- fuzz. And she stepped out of herself before they even had her carcass transferred over to the embalming table. In no pain at all; looking more youthful; she stepped away from her body, nude, and reaching, reaching out for the wall, stepping cautiously. Looking back. The girls, trailing vaporous hues as they moved about; the room pivoting and twisting, bending and warping, on sloshing inclines and jarring angles; herself, down there on that table, having her clothing cut away, noticing the break in her leg, the unnatural bend midway on her split shin; the burns like road rash on most of her, patches of hair on her head like patches of pale on her body. The sadness would have overwhelmed her, were she capable of feeling feelings. There was little to feel. She understood. She always knew. Everybody learns, eventually; we each have to die. Hard to be surprised by the matter. And the point’d be moot, because Nancy weren’t human no more, so Nancy ain’t got none of them typical human faculties, such as the suffering and the pain. There’d be no cause for her to experience death like the way a human would. Since, she already done that, and moved on. Since she weren’t human no more. She were the metaphorical dividing cells of something magnificent, some newfound afterlife unfolding exponentially. Choking… on the smoke of her roasting flesh… like a pin pushed through paper… she passed through. To new life. There- thoughtless- watching the clinical conclusion to her rich and passionate, all too brief, experience in that flesh, alive. She remembered her last death. Which was that woman there’s birth. It began with muffled sounds. There, like there, she didn’t have words to create thoughts with. Watching, unfeeling, with no attachment and complete detachment. Thinking in memories and the insinuations of contrasted images within her inner vision. The transition concluded a revolution. This other Nancy was dead. Nancy was born. Now, Nancy was dying, and this same other would begin to grow in the next place there is to go. From her dispossessed cluelessness she’d travel beyond the veil, only to return, one day, again. Compelled to be back in that body, as Morticia slid the thing into the freezer, Nancy dove in, like a wind, and felt comforted, by the fit of that flesh. There wasn’t any place she would rather be than in her own skin, for as long as humanly possible.

Grinding

We have really got to get organized, Jason! Would it kill you to keep a couple stretchers in your van? What was that out there? We’re out there with no stretchers! We look like kidney thieves!

Usually I carry bodies in my arms. If the person is too big I’ll get a hand from one of the dozens of police who are always standing around with nothing to do. If they are really too big, we get a third guy.

That’s all well and good. It must be horrendous for the onlookers.

Honestly, if you want to know the truth, I sold the things. Elections had happened; the department funds were completely drained; we owed money. The van was dead in the water. I didn’t know what else to do. I’ve been paying gas out of pocket this whole time, too.

Jason! Where did you sell them? We have to get them back.

I sold them to friend over at Providence. He knew someone with need. They’re gone. I’ll get new ones. It’s already on this quarter’s budget. I’m just still waiting for the money to come in. Not long now.

That has to be the most unprofessional thing I have ever heard.

I still have the gurneys. The facilities have gurneys. I don’t see why it matters if I carry a dead body over my shoulder or on a fancy plastic stretcher. They’re dead. Nobody cares what you do with a dead body, as long as you make it go away.

I can think of a few people who want your job. You know they’d care. There are people who will be holding you to a standard, and you’ll have to measure up.

Story of my life. If Cory or Billy wants to be coroner, they can have it; next year. I won again. I’ll stay, I’ll go. I’ve proved my metal where it matters. And, also, coroner isn’t a job. I don’t get paid. I’ve been a teenager trying to get extracurriculars on my college transcript. And I’m done. So, if I hang around beyond next election it will be because I like having an excuse to make my own hours at the courthouse.

Do you like being a coroner?

Coroner? I’m the first one this county has had since 1951. And I get to work with you. What’s not to like?

You just said you don’t get paid.

Oh. I’m going to get paid, when I’m the freaking mayor of the city of roses.

When will that be?

Soon. After I’ve been district attorney for a few years. Those stars have already begun to align. I’ll do this until then. I mean, I enjoy the rush. Not to seem morbid.

We’re all morbid here, Heather said, standing over the corpse of a deceased man. His prints were completely singed away, and his clothes, too. If he had a wallet, it had burned. The man was crisp meat, and their conversation took place as Heather made adjustments and snapped photographs of teeth using a special lens attachment. Two teams of two tended to two other corpses on either of two tables toward the freezers, fridges, and sinks. Tubes ran from jars to bodies. Drains strained red water through screens. Staff; wearing masks, gowns, and gloves. Flies landed on the lips of faces with superglued eyelids as soapy sponges washed and scrubbed charred debris from a gallery of cauterized injuries. White gowns decorated with oozing and spurting bodily fluids. Jason’s flesh- jacket, pants, shoes- soaked with stranger’s blood, diluted by rainwater and dried. Blood all over the floor, drying. Body bags thrown against the walls in heaps. An acrid stench refusing to be ventilated away.

Fans blew across Heather’s face, even though the air temperature was already cool. Her shadowy eyes; peering into the camera, making adjustments. As she clicked each photo the screen flashed light. She removed the mouthpiece of her elaborate instrument from inside the mouth of the gruesome specimen. Releasing a sigh, and taking a couple quick stretches of her spine. Giving a few whips of her ponytail, shaking dust and cobwebs from her mind. She stretched her eyes, fluttering her lashes. Jason looked at her throat, following the curvature to her heaving chest. Desire fired through him, from his mind down below to his mind down below to his mind down below. Not the right time or place. She was up to her elbows in stiffs to process. She caught him looking at her. He countered nicely with a confident and knowing glance, saying, Heather? There’s this band, that I saw a few months ago, and they’re so good, and they’re playing this Friday, over at this theater where they must play at a lot, I guess. Because I saw them there last time, too. I’m going to go; will you come with me?

What kind of music is it? What are they called?

They’re called, ‘The Pipe Hitters’. It’s this little guy, I can’t remember his name, except, I met him after the show. He’s like, kind of like Prince, or like a little Hendrix, or a Ziggy Stardust, something like that. Excellent music, though. He plays, like, rock and roll, with screaming guitars, and does some really great covers. There’s a drummer, too, and the two of them are the whole band. The drummer must be legit, because they played some heavy music; sick grooves; so ill. This singer has more charisma in his little toe than most people get in their lifetime. What do you say? Want to come?

I say yes. That sounds nice.

Nice. Let me pick you up at seven? I’ll buy you dinner before the show.

Buy me drinks.

And drinks.

Hells yeah. Alright. You ready to find out who this guy is?

I cannot wait. The suspense is killing me.

Killing you. In the morgue. Nice. Whatever manual leg work may have once been required to identify a body by dental records, the device automatically performed for Heather. Almost instantaneously, she knew, she said, Emanuel Chavez.

Latino. I wouldn’t have guessed.

Me either. Can’t tell a thing by looking at the poor guy. Alright, that leaves, what, two who still need IDs?

That’s right. Shove Emanuel back in his hole, please? I’ll pull the next one. I imagine you’re anxious to get home and change from those wet clothes. PCS was where the medical examiner worked out of. Heather had already changed from her field dressings. Jason needed identities known before his shift ended and he could return to the comforts of home. Whereas Heather was staring down fourteen hours in the morgue. I have all the time in the world. I’ll stay as long as I can be helpful. I know you’re going to be here until sometime tonight. That’s sweet. Once you have what you need you should go. It’s going to be chaotic and I don’t want you to see me yelling at the minions back there. Right on. OK. That’s good, actually. Two IDs won’t take long and I have a tidal wave of paperwork to sort through. I’ll be filling forms out while you’re working on these bodies. All day long. I don’t envy you. That’s the dues I pay. I love this. This is my passion. This is what I went through my schooling for. I wanted to be responsible for these people after their final hour runs out. Noble. No doubt. I’m in it for that French champagne and those Cuban cigars. That sounds nice, too. I can’t believe I was in the office for a couple hours, going hard on my papers, and I’m not even close to half done. You’re like a donkey on a treadmill with a carrot dangling in front of his face, powering a light bulb. People need light. And I’ll get that damn carrot. If you want to keep working on your papers, you should. I can handle this and I’ll have your names for you not too long from now. That’s not a bad idea. Yeah. I’ll be in the office. Ok, then, Heather said.

Not long thereafter, about thirty minutes later, Heather came in and put down a piece of printer paper with the names of the deceased, and some other information to narrow his search down later- when he’d be scrolling through databases searching through each Terrance Jackson and each Gregory Dorn in Portland. There’d be a few of both, so, known addresses and social security numbers, birthdates, those things were helpful. Excellent. That’s great, thank you. Yeah. I guess you’re free to leave and take your tedious toiling back from whence ye came. Excellent. Damn, it’s been one hell of a night. It really has. I think I still smell like diesel fuel. I know you do. Sorry. Don’t be. I was there, too. I know how it is. So, I’ll call you on Friday, about the concert. Right. What’s that band called again? The Pipe Hitters. Sounds like a class act. They’re so good. Check them out online. I will. If I ever get a minute. Ok. Off to get messy. Messier. Bye Jason. Bye Heather.

She walked away and Jason gathered his papers together and put his gnarly jacket back on. Briefcase in hand; from the doorway, he took one look back at her, admiring the grace of her posture as she wafted through the mortuary as if upon a breeze; hurriedly organizing her workspace. Jason spun and walked out the dimly lit hall of Portland Crematorium Services. In the sky, the first purple hues of light were beginning to appear, though the sun hadn’t yet kissed the day. He opened the van door, threw his briefcase in, got in his seat, fished for the keys, cranked the ignition, wiped the fog away with his hat, and drove out of the lot with the defoggers blasting. Purposefully neglecting his seatbelt. After the night he’d had, going through a windshield didn’t seem as bad as it sounded.

I moved twelve bodies earlier. We pulled out eighteen altogether. Word came down from EMS about another two dead, another in critical, and three others serious. Plus, a half dozen injured or so. It doesn’t seem real. It isn’t real. When they aren’t your kin, they aren’t your friends, your acquaintances, your neighbor, your color, race, or creed. When they are your work. When you’re responsible for their remains. They are not alive. They are objects. I drive the garbage truck into which we throw our human waste. My purpose is to unfurl a black cloak over the presence of death in this world. It is not a new thing. Folks do this work everywhere. However, what is different here than in honest societies, is the corruption, and the implications of this position as a rite of passage into an elite syndicate of powerful men. The upper echelons. In Portland. In my case. Although, too, all over, wherever the syndicate exists, which is basically everywhere with politics; you may well find another guy or two or two dozen just like me out there in other cities. Same as there are different sects of these overlords; who they are and what they are