Читать книгу The Complete Strain Trilogy: The Strain, The Fall, The Night Eternal - Чак Хоган, Гильермо дель Торо, Guillermo Toro del - Страница 47

THERE WAS NO BLOOD on the medical examiner who met Eph and Nora. That alone was a strange sight. Normally it ran down their waterproof gowns and stained their plastic sleeves up to the elbows. But not today. The M.E. might as well have been a Beverly Hills gynecologist.

He introduced himself as Gossett Bennett, a brown-skinned man with browner eyes, a purposeful face behind a plastic shield. “We’re just getting under way here,” he said, waving at the tables. The autopsy room was a noisy place. Whereas an operating room is sterile and silent, the morgue is its direct opposite: a bustling space hectic with whining saws, running water, and dictating doctors. “We’ve got eight going from your airplane.”

Bodies lay upon eight guttered tables of cold stainless steel. The airline fatalities were in various stages of autopsy, two of them fully “canoed”: that is, their chests had already been eviscerated, the removed organs laid out on an open plastic bag on their shins, a pathologist paring away samples on a cutting board like a cannibal preparing a platter of human sashimi. The wounded necks had been dissected and the tongues pulled through, the faces folded halfway down like latex masks, exposing the skullcaps, which had been opened with the circular saw. One brain was in the process of being severed from its attachment to the spinal cord, whereupon it would be placed in a formalin solution to harden, the last step of an autopsy. A morgue attendant was standing by with wadding, and a large curved needle threaded with heavy waxed twine, to refill the emptied skull.

A long-handled pair of hardware-store pruning shears was being passed from one table to the next, where another attendant stood on a metal footstool over an open-chested body and began cracking ribs one at a time, so that the entire rib cage and sternum could be lifted out whole. The smell was an absorbing stew of Parmesan cheese, methane, and rotten eggs.

“After you called, I began checking their necks,” said Bennett. “All the bodies so far present the same laceration you spoke of. But no scar. An open wound, as precise and clean as any I’ve ever seen.”

He showed them to an undissected female body laid out on a table. A six-inch metal block beneath her neck made her head fall back, arching her chest, extending her neck. Eph probed the skin over the woman’s throat with his gloved fingers.

He noticed the faint line—as thin as a paper cut—and gently parted the wound. He was shocked by its neatness as well as its apparent depth. Eph released her skin, and the breach closed lazily, like a sleepy eyelid or a timid smile.

“What could have caused this?” he asked.

“Nothing in nature, not that I know of,” said Bennett. “Notice the scalpel-like precision. Almost calibrated, you might say, both in aim and length. And yet—the edges are rounded, which is to say, almost organic in appearance.”

“How deep?” asked Nora.

“A clean breach, straight in, puncturing the wall of the common carotid, but stopping there. Not going out the other side, not rupturing the artery.”

“In every case?” gasped Nora.

“Every one I’ve looked at so far. Every body bears the laceration, though if you hadn’t alerted me, I have to admit I might not have noticed it. Especially with everything else going on with these bodies.”

“What else?”

“We’ll get there in a moment. Each laceration is on the neck, either front or side. Excluding one female who had hers on the chest, high above her heart. And one male we had to search, and eventually found the breach on the upper inside thigh, over the femoral artery. Each wound perforated skin and muscle, ending exactly inside a major artery.”

“A needle?” ventured Eph.

“But finer than that. I … I need to do more research into it, we’re just at the beginning here. And there’s plenty of other freaky shit going down. You’re aware of this, I assume?” Bennett led them to the door of a walk-in refrigerator. Inside, it was wider than a two-car garage. There were fifty or so gurneys, most containing a crash bag unzipped down to the corpse’s chest. A handful were fully unzipped, those bodies nude—having already been weighed, measured, and photographed—and ready for the autopsy table. There were also eight or so corpses unrelated to Flight 753, lying on bare gurneys without crash bags, bearing standard yellow toe tags.

Refrigeration slows decomposition, in the same way it preserves fruits and vegetables and delays cold cuts from spoiling. But the airplane bodies hadn’t spoiled at all. Thirty-six hours out, and they looked nearly as fresh as when Eph had first boarded the plane. As opposed to the yellow-tagged corpses, which were bloating, effluvium oozing from every orifice like a black purge, flesh going dark green and leatherlike from evaporation.

“These are some pretty good-looking dead people,” said Bennett.

Eph felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature in the cooler. He and Nora both waded in, three rows deep. The bodies looked—not healthy, for they were shrunken and bloodlessly wan—but not long dead. They bore the characteristic mask of the deceased, but it was as though they had just passed over, not thirty minutes ago.

They followed Bennett back out into the autopsy room, to the same female corpse—a woman in her early forties with no distinguishing marks other than a decade-old Cesarean scar below the bikini line—being prepped for incision. But instead of a scalpel, Bennett reached for a tool never used inside a morgue. A stethoscope.

“I noticed this earlier,” he said, offering the scope to Eph. Eph put in the ear plugs, and Bennett called for everyone else in the room to stop, for silence. A pathology assistant rushed around turning off the running water.

Bennett laid the acoustic end of the stethoscope against the corpse’s chest, just below her sternum. Eph listened with trepidation, afraid of what he was to hear. But he heard nothing. He looked at Bennett again, who showed no expression, waiting. Eph closed his eyes and focused.

Faint. Very faint. A squirming sound, almost like that of something wriggling in mud. A slow sound, so maddeningly slight he couldn’t be altogether certain he wasn’t imagining it.

He gave the scope to Nora to have a listen.

“Maggots?” she said, straightening.

Bennett shook his head. “In fact there is no infestation at all, accounting in part for the lack of decay. But there are some other intriguing abnormalities …”

Bennett waved everyone else to return to their work, selecting, from a side tray, a big number 6 blade scalpel. But instead of starting in on the chest with the usual Y-shaped incision, he took a large-mouthed stock jar from the enameled counter and placed it beneath the corpse’s left hand. He drew the scalpel blade abruptly across the underside of the wrist, slicing it open like the rind of an orange.

A pale, opalescent liquid sprayed at first, some of it spurting out onto his gloves and his hip on the initial cut, then sluicing steadily out of the arm, singing into the bottom of the jar. Flowing fast, but then, lacking any circulatory pressure from its stilled heart, losing force after about three ounces or so. Bennett lowered the arm to draw out more.

Eph’s shock at the callousness of the cut was quickly overcome by his amazement at the sight of the flow. This couldn’t be blood. Blood settles and congeals after death. It doesn’t drain out like engine oil.

Nor does it turn white. Bennett returned the arm to the corpse’s side and held up the jar for Eph to see.

Lieutenant—the corpses—they’re …

“At first I thought maybe the proteins were separating, the way oil sits on top of water,” Bennett said. “But it’s not quite that either.”

The issue was pasty white, almost as though sour milk had been introduced into the bloodstream.

Lieutenant … oh, Jesus—

Eph could not believe what he was seeing.

Nora said, “They’re all like this?”

Bennett nodded. “Exsanguinated. They have no blood.”

Eph eyed the white matter in the jar, and his taste for whole milk turned his stomach.

Bennett said, “I’ve got some other things. Core temperature is elevated. Somehow these bodies are still generating heat. Additionally, we’ve found dark spots on some organs. Not necrosis, but almost more like … like bruising.”

Bennett set the jar of opalescent fluid back down on the counter and called over a pathology assistant. She brought with her an opaque plastic tub of the same sort that take-out soup comes in. She peeled off the top and Bennett reached inside, removing an organ, setting it on a cutting board like a small, fresh-from-the-butcher roast. It was an undissected human heart. He pointed a gloved finger at where it would have joined the arteries. “See the valves? Almost as if they have grown open. Now, they couldn’t have operated like this in life. Not closing and opening and pumping blood. So this can’t have been congenital.”

Eph was aghast. This abnormality was a fatal defect. As every anatomist knows, people look just as different on the inside as they do on the outside. But no human being could conceivably have survived to adulthood with this heart.

Nora asked, “Do you have medical records for the patient? Anything we can check this against?”

“Nothing yet. Probably not until morning. But it’s made me slow this process down. Way down. I’m stopping in a little while, shutting down for the night so I can get some more support in here tomorrow. I want to check every little thing. Such as—this.”

Bennett walked them down to a fully anatomized body, that of a midweight adult male. His neck had been dissected back to the throat, exposing the larynx and trachea, so that the vocal folds, or vocal cords, were visible just above the larynx.

Bennett said, “See the vestibular folds?”

They were also known as “false vocal cords”: thick mucous membranes whose only function is to sit above and protect the true vocal folds. They are a true anatomical oddity in that they can regenerate themselves completely, even after surgical removal.

Eph and Nora leaned in closer. Both saw the outgrowth from the vestibular folds, a pinkish, fleshy protuberance—not disruptive or malformed like a tumorous mass, but branching from and within the inner throat, below the tongue. A novel, seemingly spontaneous augmentation of the soft lower mandible.

They scrubbed up outside, more diligently than usual. Both were deeply shaken by what they had seen inside the morgue.

Eph spoke first. “I’m wondering when things are going to start making sense again.” He dried his hands completely, feeling the open air against his gloveless hands. Then he felt his own neck, over the throat, approximately where the incisions were all located. “A straight, deep puncture wound in the neck. And a virus that slows antemortem decomposition on the one hand, yet apparently causes spontaneous antemortem tissue growth on the other?”

Nora said, “This is something new.”

“Or—something very, very old.”

They started out the delivery door, to Eph’s illegally parked Explorer, his EMERGENCY BLOOD DELIVERY pass on the dash. The last streaks of daytime warmth were leaving the sky. Nora said, “We need to check out the other morgues, see if they are finding the same deviations.”

The alarm went off on Eph’s cell phone. A text message from Zack:

whre R U ???? Z

“Shit,” said Eph. “I forgot … the custody hearing …”

“Now?” Nora said, before catching herself. “Okay. You go. I’ll meet you after—”

“No, I’ll call them—it will be fine.” He looked around, feeling himself splitting in two. “We need to take another look at the pilot. Why did his puncture close up, but not the others’? We need to get on top of the physiopathology of this thing.”

“And the other survivors.”

Eph frowned, reminded that they were gone. “It’s not like Jim to screw up like that.”

Nora wanted to defend Jim. “If they’re getting sick, they’ll come back.”

“Only—it might be too late. For them, and for us.”

“What do you mean, for us?”

“To get to the bottom of this thing. There’s got to be an answer somewhere, an explanation. A rationale. Something impossible is happening, and we need to find out why and stop it.”

Up on the sidewalk at the main entrance on First Street, news crews were set up for live remotes from the medical examiner’s office. That attracted a sizable crowd of onlookers, whose nervousness was palpable from around the corner. Lots of uncertainty in the air.

But one man broke from the crowd, a man Eph had noticed on the way in. An old man with birch white hair, holding a walking stick that was too tall for him, gripping it, like a staff, below its high silver handle. Like a dinner-theater Moses, except that he was impeccably dressed, formal and old-fashioned, in a light black overcoat over a gabardine suit, with a gold watch chain looped on his vest. And—oddly for the otherwise distinguished wardrobe—gray wool gloves with the fingertips cut off.

“Dr. Goodweather?”

The old man knew his name. Eph gave him another look, and said, “Do I know you?”

The man spoke with an accent, maybe Slavic. “I saw you on the box. The TV. I knew you would have to come here.”

“You’ve been waiting here for me?”

“What I have to say, Doctor, it is very important. Critical.”

Eph was distracted by the handle on top of the old man’s tall walking stick: a silver wolf’s head. “Well, not now … call my office, make an appointment …” He moved away, dialing rapidly on his cell phone.

The old man appeared anxious, an agitated man striving to speak calmly. He put on his best gentlemanly smile, including Nora in his introduction. “Abraham Setrakian is my name. Which should mean nothing to you.” He gestured, with his walking stick, at the morgue. “You saw them in there. The passengers from the airplane.”

Nora said, “You know something about that?”

“Indeed,” he said, sending a grateful smile her way. Setrakian glanced at the morgue again, like a man who, having waited so long to speak, was uncertain where to start. “You found them not much changed in there, no?”

Eph turned off his cell phone before it rang through. The old man’s words echoed his own irrational fears. “Not changed how?” he said.

“The dead. Bodies not breaking down.”

Eph said, more out of concern than intrigue, “So that is what people are hearing out here?”

“No one had to tell me anything, Doctor. I know.”

“You ‘know,’” said Eph.

“Tell us,” said Nora. “What else do you know?”

The old man cleared his throat. “Have you found a … coffin?”

Eph felt Nora rise up almost three inches off the sidewalk. Eph said, “What did you say?”

“A coffin. If you have it, then you still have him.”

Nora said, “Him who?”

“Destroy it. Right away. Do not keep it for study. You must destroy the coffin, without delay.”

Nora shook her head. “It’s gone,” she said. “We don’t know where it is.”

Setrakian swallowed with bitter disappointment. “It is as I feared.”

“Why destroy it?” asked Nora.

Eph cut in then, saying to Nora, “If this kind of talk is getting around, people will panic.” He looked at the old man. “Who are you? How did you hear these things?”

“I am a pawnbroker. I heard nothing. These things I know.”

“You know?” said Nora. “How do you know?”

“Please.” He focused on Nora now, the more receptive one. “What I am about to say, I do not say lightly. I say it desperately and with utter honesty. Those bodies in there?” He pointed at the morgue. “I tell you, before this night falls, they must be destroyed.”

“Destroyed?” said Nora, reacting negatively to him for the first time. “Why?”

“I recommend incineration. Cremation. It is simple and sure.”

“That’s him,” came a voice from the side doors, a morgue official leading a uniformed New York City patrolman toward them. Toward Setrakian.

The old man ignored them, speaking faster now. “Please. It is almost too late.”

“Right there,” said the morgue official, marching over, pointing out Setrakian to the cop. “That’s the guy.”

The cop, amiable and bored, said to Setrakian, “Sir?”

Setrakian ignored him, pleading his case directly to Nora and Eph. “A truce has been broken. An ancient, sacred pact. By a man who is no longer a man, but an abomination. A walking, devouring abomination.”

“Sir,” said the cop. “May I have a word with you, sir?”

Setrakian reached out and grasped Eph’s wrist, to command his attention. “He is here now, here in the New World, this city, this very day. This night. Do you understand? He must be stopped.”

The wool-covered fingers of the old man’s hand were gnarled, clawlike. Eph pulled away from him, not roughly but enough to jostle the old man backward. His walking stick whacked the cop on the shoulder, almost in the face—and suddenly the cop’s disinterest turned to anger.

“Okay, that’s it,” said the cop, twisting the walking stick out of his hands and bracing the old man’s arm. “Let’s go.”

“You must stop him here,” Setrakian continued, being led away.

Nora turned to the morgue official. “What’s this about? What are you doing?”

The official glanced at the laminated identification cards hanging from their necks—the red letters reading CDC—before answering. “He tried to get inside earlier, claiming to be a family member. Insisting on viewing the dead bodies.” The official looked at him being taken away. “Some kind of ghoul.”

The old man continued to plead his case. “Ultraviolet light,” he called over his shoulder. “Go over the bodies with ultraviolet light …”

Eph froze. Had he just heard that?

“Then you will see I am right,” yelled the old man, being folded into the backseat of a cruiser. “Destroy them. Now. Before it is too late …”

Eph watched them slam the door on the old man, the cop climbing behind the wheel and pulling away.