Tyler was a drifter, his Instafeed stream a humiliating display of poorly edited vistas and trite captions about hitchhiking, with very little sense of curation or aesthetic. More importantly, there was rarely another human being to be found. Two years ago, Tyler posted a tribute after the death of his father, and the language of that poststrongly implied that his mother was also dead. Even if his parentswerealive, they likely wouldn’t know about Tyler’s accident yet, as it takes some time before this information can move through the various statewide databases.
Being quick is important to my job, but it’s not just about speed. The key is being decisive. It’s about efficiently choosing my path, then diving in without hesitation.
“Alright, yeah,” Robin says finally, nodding a few times as though he’s still fighting to convince himself. “Just … please bring him back in a fresh bag.”
“I’m only transport,” I remind him, “but I’ll see what I can do.”
Robin appears thankful.
“I’ll pull my truck around to the side door,” I continue.
We immediately split off in our separate directions, a mighty surge of relief washing over me as I march back through the lobby and out into the parking lot.
My vehicle is stark white, a standard-issue box truck with a small cab for a driver and passenger, although during the entirety of my ownership nobody has ever sat shotgun. The rectangular back section is built for loading and hauling commercial goods, with airtight double doors and a sturdy metal ramp. I’ve done some customization work inside the cargo hold, but the outer shell of my trusty steed has been left as inconspicuous as possible.
I climb into the truck and put it in gear, slowly making a giant loop through the empty parking lot and then pulling up to the side of the building. I’ve already swapped out my real plates for reliable fakes, just in case Yucca ValleyFarewell Tributes has upgraded their security system and added some cameras since my last visit.
A few minutes pass, but eventually Robin opens up the door. I follow him into the building, frigid air greeting me as we enter an enormous walk-in freezer.
Most television shows depict a huge wall of individually partitioned slots, each oblong cubby with its own separate metal door. In reality, however, there’s rarely a private entrance for every guest at this morbid little shindig. Most of these walls don’t evenhavea door to cover up the rows and rows of bodies, endless cold feet sticking out like ghoulish sprouting vegetables in a frosty garden.
This chamber holds cadavers on either side, with a deep hallway running down the middle of the bunch. They’re stacked five high and at least ten rows across, an impressive setup for such a small town.
Tonight, the slots are half loaded, but it’s more than enough to create a cheeky little hunt. Robin and I move from tag to tag, carefully checking each name before continuing on to the next corpse.
What? You thought they’d be arranged in alphabetical order?
Fuck no. Haven’t you been listening?
I find Tyler Fleming before Robin does. “Over here!” I announce.
I show Robin the name tag, which prompts him to nod in confirmation and then spring into action. He carefully pulls out the metal tray, the bed locking into place as it reaches the end of its track.
Robin moves to fetch a nearby gurney and I step to the side as he passes, putting my body directly between Tyler Fleming’s corpse and the funeral assistant’s sight line. Once positioned, I remove Tyler’s tag and, in one swift sleight-of-hand movement, swap it with the tag from a body one row over.
Days from now, when final arrangements are made, this will immediately cause several layers of confusion aboutwhoshould’ve double-checkedwhatpaperwork and whether Yucca Valley Farewell Tributes is liable for this grievous error. By then, they’ll have multiple issues to deal with, and while plenty of blame could be levied against the suspicious organdonation transporter with the cropped brown hair and the black baseball cap, any concrete action will be dulled by the simple fact that they won’t find any official record of me.
In this business, things just kind of happen, and while the family of the dead may be hurt or inconvenienced by these unfortunate outcomes, I have something very important going for me in the eyes of any cosmic ethical judge. There are norealvictims here, just old meat that doesn’t really seem to care where it ends up.
Worm food.
Robin and I grab the plastic-encased body at either end of the bag, checking in with each other before counting down from three and then hoisting our section over the edge in unison. In my experience, this is where things tend to go wrong, because it’s hard to find someone who’s truly adept at lifting the dead. Very few people are prepared for the difference between the awkward, uncompromisingheft of a corpse and the weight distribution of a living, breathing human.
Every funeral home employee has at least one bodydropping story, usually taking place early in their career before they’d gotten accustomed to the unique feeling of literaldead weight.
Fortunately, despite his age, Robin seems to know what he’s doing. We settle Tyler Fleming’s carcass gently onto the metal gurney, then carefully wheel him toward the exit. There’s a clang and a rattle as the smooth tile of the walk-in freezer transitions into parking-lot concrete, and above us the stark medical lighting immediately gives way to the faint lunar glow of the evening.
“Right over here,” I direct, nodding my head toward the truck.
We come to a halt and I open the back doors of my refrigerated vehicle, letting them swing wide open in a frosty gust of air.
“Thank you so much for—” I start, but Robin interrupts with a startled yelp.
I follow his wide-eyed gaze to find that one of my earlier pickups has broken free from her metal shelf during the journey, tumbling out and slamming face-first against the hard floor below. A torn strap dangles limply over the edge of her empty cubby, a reminder of the much-needed repairs and upgrades I’ve been putting off.
Three years ago, I installed those damn straps to keep bodies from rolling around; apparently my craftsmanship has an expiration date.
“Oh my God!” Robin cries. “Help me! Let’s get them upright.”
