The Neuropathology Of Zombies (13 page)

The blow flies flew around us as we advanced to the first Driftwood. Its face was green and swollen. Pieces of skin dripped off the cheeks, the epidermis peeling away as the body decayed. Innumerable ulcers covered the exposed areas of the body. The eyes were sunken, and tiny white specks that looked like rice, wiggled between the lids of the eyes. “Maggots,” I whispered.
The Driftwood’s torso was bloated, the clothing was stretched to its limit, the seams tense under the pressure of the gas forming inside the corpse. There was a bullet hole in the center of the forehead, and the back of the skull was flattened from the exit wound. A black, greasy liquid trickled through its scalp hair.
I looked at my assistant and pointed down at the body and kept moving. I advanced to the second carcass and quickly looked around, checking to see if our presence had been detected. Four or five Driftwood stood a few hundred feet to the left with their backs to me. To the right, maybe ten more meandered down the street. None of them had noticed us.
I looked down at the second body. The face was dry and leathery, the cheeks drawn, the mouth pulled tight. Holes formed in the skin were it stretched over the skull, exposing bone. The hands were black and the skin was like rawhide. The body was starting to mummify, something that typically happens as a rotting corpse dries. There was a bullet hole below the right eye, but the back of the head was intact- the projectile didn’t exit.
I leaned over the head and slid my hands under the arm pits and dragged the body towards the loading bay. I started slowly, trying to gauge the resistance. It was like pulling a bag of rocks, the dead weight laid limp in my arms. I heard the soft rustling of its clothing skidding along the surface of the road as I pulled.
I looked over my shoulder. My assistant was nearly at the platform. I picked up my pace and was running backwards towards the group.
I kept looking over my shoulder and wasn’t watching where I was going. My foot came down awkwardly, striking something in the road, and I fell to one knee. The body of the Driftwood hit the ground with a dull ‘thud’. I looked down, and lying beside my foot was the severed head of the Driftwood struck by the blade of one of the looters.
Its eyes shot open and the globes darted around, finally focusing on me. It chomped its teeth, trying to bite me. The sudden motion caused the head to roll, it came to rest between me and the corpse I was dragging. I kicked the head, and it soared out into the street.
I picked up the body and continued to drag it along the driveway to the platform. My concentration was broken by a gunshot, and then another, and then several more in quick succession. I glanced up and saw several of the Driftwood to my right drop to the ground. I looked left, the Driftwood were heading in my direction. The commotion had revealed our location. I ran as fast as I could, still dragging the mummified carcass.
I heard someone shout, “Leave it, it’s too late, get up here!”
I turned and saw my assistant climb up on to the platform. The Marines pulled his lifeless Driftwood into the loading bay.
I continued to pull as I ran, gunfire erupting around me. Two Marines jumped down, rifles firing, and the five of us lifted the body onto the platform. The advancing horde, now numbering in the hundreds, was no more than thirty feet away as I tried to hoist myself onto the ledge. A hand reached down and grabbed my arm, yanking me to safety.
We dragged the bodies into the corridor while the raging mass clawed at the platform. I didn’t think they could climb up, it was too high, plus, they were weak and uncoordinated. I saw a set of stairs at the far end of the platform. I figured it wouldn’t be long before the Driftwood figured out how to use them.
I looked out over the crowd of zombies. The life was gone from their eyes and any sense of humanity had been erased from their minds. Their bodies moved, but these soulless creatures were certainly dead. Their desperate wails echoed off the hospital. I could see more Driftwood coming down the driveway. I backed up into the entrance of the loading bay. One of the Marines slammed the door shut and secured the lock.
“Holy fuck. That was amazing!” exclaimed one of the Marines. “Wahoo!” he shouted, and pumped his fist in the air. The others looked at each other with a sense of relief.
“That was a little too close for me!” I said.
“Oh, Doc, you should have seen it, the look on your face when you stepped on that head, priceless!” he said. “Did you see him punt that thing? Doc, you missed your calling! Bend it like Beckham, my ass, bend it like Doc!” Everyone laughed.
Through the steel door we could hear the groans of the starving dead outside. We lifted the two bodies onto the gurneys and strapped them in for the voyage to the morgue. As we walked down the hallway we could hear them pounding on the loading bay door. The drumming became relentless and frenzied.
“Looks like they found the stairs,” I joked. We turned the corner and headed for the morgue, passing the kitchen and the dark supply rooms as we went.
The morgue was on the same level we were on currently, but it was on the other side of the building. We pushed the stinking mounds of putrefied flesh through a series of hallways that seemed like a maze. The carcasses were still covered by flies, the little buggers circled around our heads as we moved.
“God damn it, they smell worse than they look! Doc, you do this every day? How do you stand this smell?” asked one of the soldiers.
“I dunno, it never really bothered me. The smell is important. You can gather a lot of information by the way a body smells. You can smell alcohol, you can smell out of control diabetes, I almost died once during an autopsy on a woman who committed suicide with cyanide, that smells like bitter almonds, or so they say; I thought it smelt and tasted like burnt dog crap, but that’s just me.”
“You need to get out more,” sighed a voice behind me.

CHAPTER 13

We reached the morgue. A chain and padlock secured the outer doors. The extra measure was in place because we destroyed the original security system. The Marine leading our group unlocked the fastening and ushered us inside.

My assistant laughed, and pushed the stretchers into the autopsy suite, “In you go!”
The two gurneys came to rest in the center of the room. The suite was dark, and the light coming from the hallway was just bright enough to spread shadows around the room, making everything look like a charcoal drawing. The corners of the morgue vanished into the back void leaving the stretchers floating in the middle, as if suspended in space.
I flicked a switch and the hanging overhead lights burst with yellow brilliance.
“Before we get started, let’s just take a quick peek at the twins in the cooler,” I said.
I walked up to the window of the cooler door and peered around the edge. The body of Mary Osbourne was nearly gone. Bone fragments were spread out across the floor and the walls were streaked with blood. The two Driftwood were motionless, resting after their substantial meal. One of them was sitting in the corner, head hung down, its chin resting pressed against its chest. The other stood back to me, facing the wall. I didn’t think they were completely frozen yet, but there were on their way.
I slipped back to the autopsy room, “I think they’ll be ready by morning,” I said.
“Ready for what?” asked one of the Marines.
“I’m not exactly sure, but you’ll see. Now, let’s get to work!”
I walked over to the storage shelves and began picking up the boxes on the floor. I found everything I needed: water-resistant coverall suits, gloves, surgical caps, face masks, and shoe covers. I dressed in the protective gear and placed my supplies on the stainless steel counter opposite the autopsy table.
“We should start with the bloater, get him over with. I’m concerned about what kind of condition his tissue will be in, I hope it’s not too decomposed,” I said.
I wheeled the gurney with the swollen Driftwood over to the edge of the autopsy table and walked around to the other side. I grabbed an arm and a leg and pulled the slippery, wet carcass towards me. It slid onto the autopsy table, the motion eased by the leaking putrefied juices.
Blow flies crawled all over the body, slipping in and out of the nostrils and mouth. The cold air slowed their movements and made it difficult for them to fly, which was nice, because it kept them out of my face.
The body was that of a white male, weighing 210 pounds and measuring 75 inches in length. I was unable to accurately estimate the age because of the postmortem changes, and the zombification of the body, but I guessed he was around 50 to 60 years old. His hair was thinning and was mostly gray, with some hint of youthful brown still remaining. The whites of the eyes were dark yellow and large black pupils were hidden under a thick gray haze. I couldn’t make out the color of the irises. The face was wet, moistened by the fluid seeping from the peeling green skin. There were several small ulcerations on the face, the largest measuring about a half an inch in diameter; they were randomly distributed and I could not discern a pattern to their appearance. I opened the mouth and examined the teeth, several were broken near the gum line. A maroon jelly-like fluid escaped from the oral cavity and dripped off the chin. I looked at the sides of the face and in the ears.
“Hey, look at this!” I said, pointing to the ear. “See this white powdery stuff that looks like saw dust or freshly grated parmesan cheese? Maggot eggs! Cool, huh? Flies lay their eggs in moist holes, like the eyes, ears, mouth, anus, places like that. Interesting.” The Marines said nothing.
I turned my attention to the gunshot wound of the forehead. It was a small, circular hole, about one-quarter of an inch in diameter. There was a thin abrasion at the bottom of the wound that was angled to the left, telling the direction of the shot was upwards and left to right. I felt around the skull, making my way towards the back of the head. I felt the bones move easily beneath my hand.
I sighed, “He’s got a lot of skull fractures, I bet the brain is a mess.” I lifted my hand from under the back of the head; it was caked with liquefied brain matter. The partially congealed fragments of neural tissue were coated with a black, sticky fluid I could only guess was blood.
I removed the clothing with some difficulty. I always had a technician to do this part of the autopsy; I forgot how hard it was, especially when the body was decomposed.
I examined the rest of the corpse. There was a 12-inch scar on the central aspect of the chest, most likely from a heart bypass operation. The skin of the torso and extremities had the same dusky gray color as the face. There was marbling of the arms and legs due to the bacteria spreading through the vascular system. I looked closer at the skin, moving along the entire length of the cadaver, my face skimming the surface of the carcass.
“Ahh, here we are. Look at this.” I waved the group closer to the autopsy table, “See this almost circular bruise with these irregularly shaped cuts going all the way around? It’s a bite mark! This is where he was zapped! How cool is that?”
“No kidding!” exclaimed one of the Marines. He leaned over the body and hung his face over the wound.
The bite mark was swollen and bulged off the shoulder. The center was dark and oozed red and green pus, the whole thing looked like a volcano ready to erupt.
I reached over to the counter and grabbed a scalpel. “I need to take a sample of this!” I dragged the blade through the festering wound. I stood up straight, arching my back, tilting my head towards the ceiling, expecting it to burst and spray me with sickness; but it didn’t, it just leaked its machine oil colored contents onto my gloves. I put the skin sample in a plastic tissue cassette and placed it in a jar of formaldehyde.
Now, I was ready to make my first incision. You could always tell a new pathologist from one with more experience by the way they made the first cut. The new pathologist rests the scalpel blade on the front of the shoulder and hesitates for a second, wondering if there was anything he or she forgot to do, pondering the list of things they needed to remember to look for. The more seasoned pathologist just cuts, confidently and decisively.
I walked up to the cadaver and plunged the knife into the skin of the right shoulder, swiftly bringing the blade down at an angle across the chest until I hit the middle of the breast bone. I then did the same to the left shoulder, forming a ‘V’ on the center of the chest. The skin hissed as gas formed by the bacteria devouring the body escaped from the incision. I continued my cut along the middle of the abdomen until I hit the pubic bone, creating the traditional ‘Y’ shaped incision.
There was a one-inch layer of fat covering the belly; the bright yellow tissue glowed against the dark, pine green color of the decaying skin. I used the blade to dig deeper into the fat pad until I uncovered the peritoneum, the dense fibrous tissue protecting the entrails. A clear yellow fluid, identical to vegetable oil, leaked from the fat as it liquefied with decomposition, coating my hands with a slippery residue. I sunk the tip of the scalpel into the tough peritoneal layer allowing a blast of gas to rush from the internal cavity. The air immediately filled with a heavy, rotten smell distinct to putrefied meat. The abdomen sank as the gas leaked out, the flaps of the incision vibrated with the turbulent flow, creating a noise that sounded like a balloon deflating.
I turned my head to my observers, “That’s the worst part, I promise!”
I continued to cut through the dense connective tissue of the abdomen. The swollen green intestines popped out as the opening in the body widened.
Once the gut was exposed, I returned to the shoulders and dragged the knife along the original cut, driving the blade into the bony shell of the chest, and began to strip the flesh from the ribs with short, deliberate motions. The putrefied muscles resting under the skin were purple and soft.
After all the soft tissue was dissected away from the ribs, I reached for a giant pair of hedge clippers that were lying in the sink opposite the autopsy table. I pulled the handles of the clippers apart, opening the razorsharp blades. I chomped away on the lower ribs, cutting towards the head. The sound of bone snapping echoed off the walls.
“Oh, God, Doc, I thought you said the stink from the abdomen was going to be the worst part!” one of the Marines said, shaking his head. “That sound is sick.”
I moved along the rib cage, cracking the bones as I went. A greasy, black fluid leaked from the opening in the chest and pooled on the autopsy table.
“Deco juice,” I said pointing to the dribbling liquid. “This fluid seeps from the tissues as the body decomposes, I call it ‘deco juice’.”
Once the ribs were cut, I lifted the chest plate off the body revealing the lungs and heart. The lungs were shriveled, and floating in deco juice. The heart was soft and flabby, and had turned a dark purple color as it rotted.
“Everything looks like it’s in the correct anatomic position. Both lungs have the appropriate number of lobes,” I said, lifting the lungs and dropping them back into the chest cavity, they landed with a splash. “The heart is very soft and I can just about put my thumb through it, it’s really decomposed. How the hell are these things walking around?”
I cut out the heart, thick clumps clotted black goo leaked from the incision. I then removed the lungs, leaving the chest cavity vacant. I gazed into the empty space, the pink and plum colored ribs ran diagonally towards the back and disappeared into the lakes of deco juice.
I weighed the organs and wrote down some notes. The heart was enlarged and weighted 600 grams. I made short cuts through the coronary arteries, the blood vessels that supply the heart with blood. They were severely diseased and nearly completely blocked by thick plaques of cholesterol. I made parallel incisions along the base of the heart, exposing the inner chambers. The rotting muscle felt like putty between my fingers.
The lungs were heavier than normal, weighing 900 grams, each. Foamy fluid seeped from the spongy tissue as I a sliced it with a long, slender knife. The surfaces of the lungs were covered by a patchwork of black carbon deposits, typical of smokers.
I placed the organs in a steel tray at the foot of the autopsy table, where they sat, and oozing deco juice.
I stuck my hands into the abdominal cavity and pulled out the intestines, heaving them like a lobsterman pulling on the ropes of his traps. The loops bowel coiled around, piling up on the autopsy table. I pulled the last portion of bowel taught with one hand and with my other, slipped my knife across the gas-filled tube, severing it from the back of the body. A pale-brown paste leaked out onto my gloves; it was cold, and small pieces of vegetable material floated away in a stream of partially digested food. I continued to pull the bowel with one hand, while cut the surrounding fat with the other, until all twenty eight feet were freed from the peritoneal cavity. I lifted the heavy loops intestine and tossed them in a trash can next to the autopsy table.
I lifted out the liver; it was heavy, weighing 3200 grams. I sliced the organ like a loaf of bread. The soft, light-tan colored inner surface was honeycombed due to the expansion of the gas excreted by the bacteria feeding on the corpse. Although the liver was beginning to breakdown, it had a fatty texture typical of the damage caused by alcohol.
I then took out the kidneys and bladder. There was still urine in the bladder. I plunged a syringe into the swollen sac, drawing out several milliliters of straw-colored waste. I squirted the urine into a plastic container, even though the body was decomposing, we could still perform useful laboratory tests on the urine.
The outer surfaces kidneys were pitted, and felt like sandpaper. They were small for this man’s age, weighing 100 grams each, suggesting that in life he had high blood pressure.
The stomach was the last organ to be removed from the torso. It was enormously distended and jiggled as the pulpy contents slopped around. I clamped the esophagus and then cut, lifting the stomach out of the body, careful not to spill any of the meal inside. I held the bean-shaped pouch over a one-liter pitcher and made a small hole in the bottom. The gastric contents gushed out, rapidly filling the pitcher. There was a brief sweet and sour scent, reminiscent of curdled milk and vomit. I poured a small amount into a plastic container for toxicology studies and dumped the rest down the sink. I watched as large chunks of un-chewed meat and bits of bone washed away, the partially digested remains of some unfortunate soul now being devoured by the garbage disposal.
After the body was eviscerated, I placed small pieces of each organ into plastic tissue cassettes and then plopped them into a jar of formaldehyde. The samples would later be placed in the processor and eventually turned into microscopic slides.
The only thing left to do was to remove the brain. I placed the scalpel blade behind the right ear and pressed down until I could feel the resistance of the skull. I swung the knife up, and across the back of the head, careful not to come too close to the top of the scalp. This was a standard maneuver intended to be as inconspicuous as possible; by keeping the incision behind the head, it could be easily concealed by a pillow during the funeral. However, I was not concerned about the fuss a funeral home would make if I botched this incision; there would be no wake for this man. Still, I acted on instinct, and made the same cut I had made several thousand times before.
I pulled the scalp down towards the face, my knife clicking against the bones of the skull as I cut the dense connective tissue attaching the skin to the cranium. The forehead peeled away, and there was a sound like tearing paper. I used both hands and all my strength until the flap was just above the eyes. The red and yellow underbelly of the inverted scalp hung over the face like a veil.
The electric glow of the overhead lights reflected off the bones of the skull, the head glistened like ice. I grabbed an electric saw cut through the thick vault. Pale green chunks of brain dripped from the vibrating blades.
I pried the skull cap from the head, “I don’t think this is going to be pretty.” Fragments of bone surrounding the exit wound in the skull fell to the table.
The brain sat in a puddle on the base of the skull. It looked like oatmeal. The convolutions of the outer layer of the brain slid downwards, flowing like melting candle wax. A rancid smell gushed from the opened calvarium, burning my nose and making my eyes water.
“Yup, just as I thought, not good. Smells like shit, too, phew.”