Dark Side: Seven Repulsive Stories
Stefanie N Snider
©2011, 2012 Stefanie N Snider
Smashwords Edition
Melissa pried back the white plastic lid and tipped the bucket unceremoniously over a large sieve.
A hand flopped out and lay there in the plastic mesh, palm up, fingers curled.
She leaned over to get a better angle through her thick plastic mask. Female, looks like. Huh.
Once the hand had drained, she lifted the sieve and flipped it over into a lined container marked BIOHAZARD. The hand fell wetly on top of the sundry pieces already laying there; a gallbladder, a kidney, a tumour with the eye and lid still attached.
The mask she wore was chafing again. She scrunched her cheeks, trying to unstick the rubber gasket that was gouging a raw red ring into her skin. It wouldn't budge, stuck slick against the sweat beading on her face. She sighed, the sound amplified oddly behind the industrial mask.
Better get a couple more done before break, she thought.
Sighing inwardly, she reached for the next bucket. The shelves were full this time; it would take her the rest of the day, easily, and maybe some of the next.
It hadn't been her first choice, this job. It wouldn't be anyone's. But it was necessary.
An overtired supervisor had shown her to the dim room. It was cramped, tucked in behind the Pathology labs, and it even through the door Melissa could smell the chemicals inside.
“This is the dump room,” the woman, Cheryl, had said. “Anything comes offa you or outta you, we keep it here in case someone decides they want to sue us. After six months, everything in here's gotta be thrown out.” She'd swung the door wide and swept Melissa inside.
“Masks, here.” She pointed as she spoke. “Gowns, gloves, shoe covers. Buckets. If you can't get them open, I can get you a pry tool, but I don't like to use them. More chance of a splash.”
Melissa had hoped her grimace wasn't obvious.
“Now, you need to know that these containers might hold anything. Breasts, feet, products of conception.” She'd looked at Melissa, her eyes softening a little. “That's babies. Miscarriages, abortions. If you can't deal with that we can find someone else.”
“No, I'll be fine,” Melissa said, her voice cheerful, wanting so badly to make a good impression. Anything to get a job here. Anything.
Cheryl had nodded curtly and slipped out, leaving Melissa alone with pieces of strangers.
That first time the job had been half done already; Cheryl said the intern before her had moved on suddenly. Melissa had made short work of the dumping, and had been given the dubious honour of “Disposal Attendant”. The job paid next to nothing, but her internship was unpaid altogether and she was nearing the end of her loan.
Now she peeled back the opaque plastic lid.
Weird, she thought, there's nothing in this one.
She swirled the murky preservative around; still nothing surfaced. She shrugged and poured the liquid out in the dump sink beside the sieve.
An ear, badly burnt, plopped into the shiny steel sink. It lay there, shrivelled and raw.
“Gross,” she said to the empty room. She flexed one gloved hand and reached down to pick it up. Her fingers stopped just shy of the lobe; for a second she thought of what it might feel like and almost didn't touch it at all.
She'd imagined hard brittleness, but what she felt when she plucked it from the sink was warm soft flesh.
Reflex made her fling it away; it stuck to the back wall of the sink and began, before her horrified eyes, to slide back down.
She gagged a little.
Finally it flipped end over end and came to rest again by the drain.
Melissa looked around for tongs, pliers, anything so she wouldn't have to feel it's warmth against her glove. She found a pencil lying along the back of the counter, but couldn't bring herself to pierce the tissue.
Reluctantly, she extended her hand again. She exhaled, steeled herself, and scooped the offending organ up. She tossed it into the waste box, where it vanished down the side.
Melissa shuddered. Screw this. I'm taking my break.
She shucked her gown off and turned to hang it on the hook.
A sound, a very, very quiet sound, came from behind her.
She stopped, held her breath, waited.
It was muffled, but it was there. The crackle of shifting plastic.
She knew right away, but she turned to be sure: it was coming from the box on the floor. The big yellow one with all the...parts.
She moved closer, shoved the box with the toe of her sneaker.
Waited.
Nothing. Stop being a dumbass.
She peeled the thick rubber gloves down and flung them onto the counter. The booties could wait—they were a pain in the ass anyway.
She nudged the lid into place with one denim-clad knee and turned to leave.
Wait.
The lid had been on, firmly, before she took her gown off. Cheryl had stressed the importance of covering the...waste...as a personal safety precaution. Melissa had clamped the lid down, she was sure of it.
But then it had been open, just a little, tilted back on an angle.
You're losing it. Get out of the fumes.
She turned
then
a long, slick piece of intestine coiled its way up her leg. Melissa shrieked and kicked, trying to dislodge the thing. It only snugged tighter, climbing higher until it reached her thigh. One end swung itself across her and wrapped around her other leg, rendering her immobile. The other end was still pinched in the lid of the hazard container.
She screamed then, the shrill sound dead against the insulating rows of plastic.
Her hands shook; her body shuddered. This isn't happening.
She forced a quivering hand down and pulled at the ropey gore, but it was steadfast. And the lid was sliding back again...
Melissa tried to scissor her legs apart; to force enough slack to run.
A fingertip appeared. Two. The hand gripped the lip of the waste box and tensed, trying to pull itself over. Suddenly it fell, pushed by a blob of amorphous meat that splatted down beside it.
The intestine was squeezing harder, made stronger by the chemicals that preserved it. It was up to her stomach now. She gaped down in horror. Dark blue veins pulsed with hideous life. A wet trail of chemical fixative marked its ascent. The pockets in the intestine contracted and expanded, propelling it as it slithered up toward her chest.
Bits of gore rained down from the yellow bucket on the floor and began inching closer. The errant ear from earlier rode perched atop the gnarled hand, whose cracked and blackened nails clicked on the tile as it approached.
The hand reached her in seconds, it seemed, and began tugging on her pant leg. Its fingertips clenched the fabric, urging her back towards the spreading pool of excised tissue. The grisly stump at the wrist thumped against the floor as it pulled.
The intestines were almost at her neck now, cuddled into the hot pulse at her throat. The severed end reached up and lovingly stroked her face—
The door behind her swung open.
Instantly the undead tissue fell to the floor, harmless again.
Cheryl stood in the doorway, mouth open in shock as she surveyed the scene. Bits and pieces lay scattered around the floor. Melissa stood stiff at the centre of the carnage.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” Cheryl demanded.
“It...they...attacked me!”
“They who?”
Melissa struggled to speak. The open end of intestine lying across her shoe burped, releasing a mouthful of fixative.
She ran, screaming, from the room. Cheryl watched her with open disgust.
“They think they'll handle it, but they never do.” She sighed, grabbed some gloves from her pocket, and set about cleaning the glistening mess.
Katie followed the trail of expletives to find Steve on the floor of their bedroom. The bed lay in fragments around the room: headboard here, rails there. He had an open toolbox and a pissed-off expression.
“Um...”
“Don't even ask,” he growled.
She rolled her eyes, a habit so old she didn't realize she'd done it. “Well, I kinda need to ask. What happened?”
He pitched the a wrench and it clanged off his toolbox. He exhaled a sharp breath.
“I was trying to tighten the frame. I got sick of waking up every time you roll over.” Seeing her expression, he softened. “I'm not blaming you. It's this...this piece of crap.” He gestured dismissively at the shrapnel.
She wisely chose to bite her tongue, seeing as she was the one who'd chosen the frame.
“I stripped the friggin' bolts. I'll have to get replacements at the store tomorrow, but in the meantime, this is it.”
The mattress and box spring sat on the floor in the middle of the room. The feather-bed, which normally plumped the bed to an almost obscene height, looked lumpy and stupid now.
She put a hand on his shoulder.
“No big deal. It's just for the night.”
* * *
When she came to bed that evening, Katie found Rusty sprawled across it. Tongue out, legs up, completely unaware of how busted he was.
“Off, dog,” she scolded.
At once he was awake. Avoiding her eyes, he guiltily slunk off the bed.
“Go on. You know better.”
“Do you always have conversations with the dog?” Steve stood in the doorway, already in his favorite tattered boxers.
“I don't want him on the bed. He stinks.” She'd never admit it, but that was why she'd insisted on the high frame in the first place. Ornate carvings, her ass.
Steve clicked off the light and felt his way to the bed's new position.
“Can I still come in?” he said playfully. “I promise I don't stink.” He crawled his way up to join her at the pillows.
She learned to appreciate a quiet bed.
* * *
She woke to feel clumsy paws trampling her legs. Katie fumbled for the lamp for a minute before realizing the table was still in its spot by the wall.
She yanked a foot back from under the dog and kicked at him. Eventually he gave in and she felt the edge of the mattress depress as he got down. She heard his resigned steps heading down the stairs.
She drifted back to sleep.
* * *
Some time later Katie woke again. The stupid dog was pacing alongside the bed. She could hear the gentle clicking of his nails on the wooden floor.
Oh, come on. I have to be up early tomorrow.
“Rusty! Lay down!” In her frustration her voice came out much louder than she'd meant it to.
Rusty whimpered an answer from downstairs.
It took her a minute to place the sound.
What
“...the fuck?”
The clicking had stopped. She listened hard, but couldn't hear anything.
Must've dreamt it.
She settled back into the pillow and closed her eyes.
A floorboard right beside the bed creaked.
She sat up straight and reached into the darkness for the lamp.
Something warm came close enough that she sensed its heat.
Her throat slammed shut, trapping the scream that had formed. She flailed wildly and finally caught the edge of the nightstand. She leaned precariously off the side of the bed, found the switch, and flicked the lamp on.
There was a man, on all fours, beside their bed.
His skin was papery and thin, and hung off him like an ill-fitting suit. His thinning hair hung in patches from an oozing, infected scalp. His mouth hung open dumbly, and Katie could see a string of saliva snaking its way toward the floor.