Half-Off Ragnarok
Page 43
—Kevin Price
In the kitchen of an only moderately creepy suburban home in Columbus, Ohio, preparing to perform an autopsy on the kitchen table
“NO,” said Grandma. “Absolutely not. Martin, what were you thinking?”
“That we sold the Ping-Pong table at the rummage sale last summer, so if we’re going to cut a man up, this is the best place to do it.” Grandpa sounded slightly sheepish. “I told you we shouldn’t have sold it. Things like that always come in handy when you least expect it.”
“Sorry, Grandma,” I said, without looking up from the complicated business of cutting Bill O’Malley’s clothes off with the scissors from the junk drawer. His joints had stiffened enough to make it hard to bend his arms and legs, and I wound up removing his pants in small pieces, dropping them into the trash can I had ready for just that purpose.
“Angela. I know this is inconvenient, but we don’t have a better place to perform the autopsy.” Grandpa’s voice was level but firm. He walked over to her, putting one massive hand on her shoulder. “Mr. O’Malley is already gone, God rest his soul, and it’s not like we could use him for spare parts when he’s been half-petrified.”
“Excuse me?” said Shelby.
Grandpa continued like he hadn’t heard her. “Now at least this way, he can teach us something before we dispose of his mortal remains.”
“But does he have to teach us on my kitchen table?” Grandma asked petulantly. Then she sighed. “I suppose you’ll want the autopsy kit.”
“That would be nice,” I said.
“I’ll go get it,” said Grandma. “You three, stay here, and try not to get any gore on my kitchen.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Grandpa. “I think this one is going to require the big tarp.” The two of them turned and left the kitchen, leaving me alone with Shelby and the dead man.
The dead man was honestly the least of my problems. Shelby crossed her arms, glaring at me, and demanded, “Spare parts?”
“Grandpa’s a Revenant,” I said, as I resumed cutting off the last of Mr. O’Malley’s clothing. “He was originally several different dead guys. Now he’s one living guy. You should ask him about it sometime. He tells the best dumb mad scientist jokes.”
Shelby looked at me blankly for several seconds before she said, “You’re a hell of a lot cockier than I’m used to you being, you know that?”
“That’s because you’re finally seeing me in my element. Work cocktail parties, not so much my thing. Dead bodies? I’m your boy.” I pulled the last of Mr. O’Malley’s clothing off of his body, covering his genital region with one of Grandma’s good hand towels. She’d probably yell at me for that later, but the man deserved at least a little dignity.
“Disturbing yet endearing,” said Shelby. “What do we do now?”
“Hmm?” I dug my phone out of my pocket. “Now we examine the body. Have you done this before?”
“I’ve never done a proper autopsy, but I’ve done plenty of necropsies, and a few cryptid dissections. None where the victim was partially turned to stone, but I know how to hold a scalpel.”
“Good.” I handed her my phone. “I’m going to want you to take pictures for right now. Once we get into the more invasive procedures, I may need your hands.”
“Got it,” said Shelby, with a mock salute. “Why are we doing this again? I thought your grandfather was a coroner.”
I saluted back, motioning for her to follow me as I began to circle the body. “He is, but this isn’t really an autopsy so much as it’s a game of hide-and-seek with the petrifaction. He understands the human body. I understand turning it to stone.”
“So it doesn’t matter if you butcher the poor man as long as you find what you need, yeah?”
“Yeah. On that note, there’s some petrifaction of the fingertips and discoloration of the skin to the first knuckle, but the rest of the hand looks normal.” I picked up Mr. O’Malley’s hand, turning it gently. “Normal pliability for this stage of rigor. No signs of internal petrifaction.”
Shelby dutifully took a picture of Mr. O’Malley’s stone fingertips.
My next stop was Mr. O’Malley’s head. As expected, his eyes had been fully petrified, becoming hard round balls of stone. His tongue was also petrified, and his lips were discolored, showing the progress of the petrifaction through his system. His cheeks remained fleshy and skin-toned, the tips of his ears and bottoms of his earlobes had been petrified. Shelby dutifully took pictures of all the grayish spots.
“So is all of this telling you anything?” she asked.
“It was definitely a visual petrifaction—poison moves with the bloodstream, but this was targeting the extremities as much as it was the eyes and internal organs. That’s a sign of the whole ‘visual allergy’ thing.”
“Cockatrice, yeah?”
“Probably. At this point, I’m hoping so.” I looked up long enough to flash her a strained smile. “I’m not really in the mood for another scientific mystery right now.”
Shelby nodded. “All right then,” she said. “Let’s get back to the dead man at hand.”
We had almost finished our initial, noninvasive examination of the body by the time my grandparents came back. Grandma was carrying the plain brown briefcase that contained our home autopsy kit, as well as a pair of rib spreaders, a bone saw, and a chisel. I raised an eyebrow at the chisel. “You don’t know how far the petrifaction has spread internally,” she said.
“Fair point,” I replied.
Grandpa, on the other hand, was carrying an armload of protective gear. He dropped smocks, gloves, and non-polarized goggles on the counter before walking to the kitchen table, putting a hand beneath it, and lifting the whole thing casually off the floor. “What have you learned so far?” he asked, as he began spreading a tarp across what would become our autopsy zone.
“Visual petrifaction confirmed; some damage to the extremities, but the main damage seems to have been to the eyes and throat. His trachea is completely blocked by what looks like concrete. He probably suffocated.”
“What’s this?” I turned to see Shelby looking at the dead man. She pointed. “Look at the underside of his knee. See? Right there.”
In the kitchen of an only moderately creepy suburban home in Columbus, Ohio, preparing to perform an autopsy on the kitchen table
“NO,” said Grandma. “Absolutely not. Martin, what were you thinking?”
“That we sold the Ping-Pong table at the rummage sale last summer, so if we’re going to cut a man up, this is the best place to do it.” Grandpa sounded slightly sheepish. “I told you we shouldn’t have sold it. Things like that always come in handy when you least expect it.”
“Sorry, Grandma,” I said, without looking up from the complicated business of cutting Bill O’Malley’s clothes off with the scissors from the junk drawer. His joints had stiffened enough to make it hard to bend his arms and legs, and I wound up removing his pants in small pieces, dropping them into the trash can I had ready for just that purpose.
“Angela. I know this is inconvenient, but we don’t have a better place to perform the autopsy.” Grandpa’s voice was level but firm. He walked over to her, putting one massive hand on her shoulder. “Mr. O’Malley is already gone, God rest his soul, and it’s not like we could use him for spare parts when he’s been half-petrified.”
“Excuse me?” said Shelby.
Grandpa continued like he hadn’t heard her. “Now at least this way, he can teach us something before we dispose of his mortal remains.”
“But does he have to teach us on my kitchen table?” Grandma asked petulantly. Then she sighed. “I suppose you’ll want the autopsy kit.”
“That would be nice,” I said.
“I’ll go get it,” said Grandma. “You three, stay here, and try not to get any gore on my kitchen.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Grandpa. “I think this one is going to require the big tarp.” The two of them turned and left the kitchen, leaving me alone with Shelby and the dead man.
The dead man was honestly the least of my problems. Shelby crossed her arms, glaring at me, and demanded, “Spare parts?”
“Grandpa’s a Revenant,” I said, as I resumed cutting off the last of Mr. O’Malley’s clothing. “He was originally several different dead guys. Now he’s one living guy. You should ask him about it sometime. He tells the best dumb mad scientist jokes.”
Shelby looked at me blankly for several seconds before she said, “You’re a hell of a lot cockier than I’m used to you being, you know that?”
“That’s because you’re finally seeing me in my element. Work cocktail parties, not so much my thing. Dead bodies? I’m your boy.” I pulled the last of Mr. O’Malley’s clothing off of his body, covering his genital region with one of Grandma’s good hand towels. She’d probably yell at me for that later, but the man deserved at least a little dignity.
“Disturbing yet endearing,” said Shelby. “What do we do now?”
“Hmm?” I dug my phone out of my pocket. “Now we examine the body. Have you done this before?”
“I’ve never done a proper autopsy, but I’ve done plenty of necropsies, and a few cryptid dissections. None where the victim was partially turned to stone, but I know how to hold a scalpel.”
“Good.” I handed her my phone. “I’m going to want you to take pictures for right now. Once we get into the more invasive procedures, I may need your hands.”
“Got it,” said Shelby, with a mock salute. “Why are we doing this again? I thought your grandfather was a coroner.”
I saluted back, motioning for her to follow me as I began to circle the body. “He is, but this isn’t really an autopsy so much as it’s a game of hide-and-seek with the petrifaction. He understands the human body. I understand turning it to stone.”
“So it doesn’t matter if you butcher the poor man as long as you find what you need, yeah?”
“Yeah. On that note, there’s some petrifaction of the fingertips and discoloration of the skin to the first knuckle, but the rest of the hand looks normal.” I picked up Mr. O’Malley’s hand, turning it gently. “Normal pliability for this stage of rigor. No signs of internal petrifaction.”
Shelby dutifully took a picture of Mr. O’Malley’s stone fingertips.
My next stop was Mr. O’Malley’s head. As expected, his eyes had been fully petrified, becoming hard round balls of stone. His tongue was also petrified, and his lips were discolored, showing the progress of the petrifaction through his system. His cheeks remained fleshy and skin-toned, the tips of his ears and bottoms of his earlobes had been petrified. Shelby dutifully took pictures of all the grayish spots.
“So is all of this telling you anything?” she asked.
“It was definitely a visual petrifaction—poison moves with the bloodstream, but this was targeting the extremities as much as it was the eyes and internal organs. That’s a sign of the whole ‘visual allergy’ thing.”
“Cockatrice, yeah?”
“Probably. At this point, I’m hoping so.” I looked up long enough to flash her a strained smile. “I’m not really in the mood for another scientific mystery right now.”
Shelby nodded. “All right then,” she said. “Let’s get back to the dead man at hand.”
We had almost finished our initial, noninvasive examination of the body by the time my grandparents came back. Grandma was carrying the plain brown briefcase that contained our home autopsy kit, as well as a pair of rib spreaders, a bone saw, and a chisel. I raised an eyebrow at the chisel. “You don’t know how far the petrifaction has spread internally,” she said.
“Fair point,” I replied.
Grandpa, on the other hand, was carrying an armload of protective gear. He dropped smocks, gloves, and non-polarized goggles on the counter before walking to the kitchen table, putting a hand beneath it, and lifting the whole thing casually off the floor. “What have you learned so far?” he asked, as he began spreading a tarp across what would become our autopsy zone.
“Visual petrifaction confirmed; some damage to the extremities, but the main damage seems to have been to the eyes and throat. His trachea is completely blocked by what looks like concrete. He probably suffocated.”
“What’s this?” I turned to see Shelby looking at the dead man. She pointed. “Look at the underside of his knee. See? Right there.”
