Chapter 15 Mortuary Room 4

This moment is so dark, I don't know how long.I thought I was still in a coma, and then I gradually realized that an unconscious person has no sense of movement in the dark, but I felt accompanied by a faint, rhythmic sound that could only come from creaking. The rattling little wheels came out, and I felt tactile from head to toe.I can smell it, probably rubber or resin.I didn't lose consciousness, and I kind of felt like, what?It feels very real, because it is a dream. What's wrong with me? who am I?What happened? The squeaky wheel ceased its monotonous rhythm, and I stopped, a crackling, chopping, popping sound all around me from something that smelled of rubber.

A voice: "Which room are they talking about?" After a while, another voice: "I remember number 4, yes, number 4." We started moving again, slower than before.I can hear faint footsteps now, perhaps in soft-soled shoes.The people who talked were the ones who walked, and they stopped again, and then there was a squeak followed by a bang, which I thought was the sound of the air-hinged door being opened. What happened?I yelled, but the yell was only in my head, my lips couldn't move.I can feel the presence of the lips and tongue, and the tongue is like a startled mole at the bottom of the mouth, but I just can't move it.

The thing I was lying on started to move again, is it a moving bed?Yes, gurneys in other words, I know something about this stuff, saw it a long time ago in President Lyndon Johnson's stupid Asian adventures - the Vietnam War, and it dawned on me that I was in the hospital - I had unfortunate things like the explosion that nearly killed me 23 years ago - and realized I was going to have surgery.I have a lot of explanations in my head for this idea, but I don't hurt anything, I feel it in many places.Other than being a little overwhelmed by the sudden turn of events, I'm feeling fine.If these male staff are pushing me into the operating room, why can't I see anything?why can't i speak

A third voice: "Here, boys." The gurney turned in one direction and was pushed forward.There is a question that puzzles me, what is wrong with me? I asked myself: Don't you want to know who you are?At least that's what I can think of.I did remember who I was: I was Howard Cottrell, a stockbroker, and my colleagues called me Howard the Conqueror. Second voice (right above my head): "Doctor, you look beautiful today." Fourth voice (female, very cold): "It's always nice to be complimented by you, Rusty. Please hurry up, the nanny wants me back by 7 o'clock, she has promised and her Parents have dinner together."

Go back before 7:00?It should still be afternoon, maybe morning.But it's dark in here, black as your top hat, black as a groundhog's butt, dark like midnight in Persia, what's going on?Where was I before I came to the hospital?What am I doing?Why didn't you bring your cell phone? Because it's Saturday, a distant voice is whispering, you are, you are... hoo, this is the voice I like, it is the voice I more or less live for, what is it?Of course it was the sound of the golf club swing, and after hitting the ball off the tee, I stood there watching the ball fly into the sky... My shoulders, my calves were grabbed and lifted, which surprised me, thinking To yell out.But I couldn't make a sound, maybe a very faint sound, much less than the squeaking of the wheels under me, maybe not even at all, maybe it's just my imagination.

I was dangling in the air in the black bag. Well, don't drop me, my back hurts, I try to tell them, but my lips and teeth still don't move; the tongue is still lying in the bottom of my mouth, maybe this mole is not fainted but is dead.At this point I had a horrible thought: what if my tongue was stuck back in my windpipe when they put me down?I can't breathe!That's what people call someone who "swallowed his tongue," isn't it?The thought turned me from fear to dread. SECOND VOICE (Rusty): "Doctor, you're going to like this, he's like Michelle Bolton."

Female voice: "Who is that?" A third voice, who sounded like a young man, in his early 20s at the most, "was a white bar singer who wanted to be black, and I didn't think he was like that." Everyone laughed, and so did the female voice (slightly skeptical).I'm placed on what feels like a padded surface, and Rusty starts cracking some new jokes, and doing stand-up comedy seems to be part of his routine.But all my joy at hearing his jokes was lost in this sudden sense of dread.If my tongue blocked the windpipe, I couldn't breathe.That's what just crossed my mind.What if I can't breathe now?

What if I die?What would I do if death was like this? I had to adapt, to the warm and comfortable environment that was scary but disease-proof.That darkness, that rubber smell.I now know myself as Howard the Conqueror, the extraordinary stockbroker, the hard-pressed master at the Derby Country Club, the regular on the 19th hole on the golf course.But in the Mekong Delta in 1971, I was part of a medical rescue team, a frightened young man who sometimes woke up crying in dreams of the family dog.I felt the feeling, the smell all at once. God, I'm lying in a body bag! The first voice: "Doctor, please sign here? Remember to use force, and make three copies."

The sound of a pen scratching the paper.I imagined that the person who made the first voice was facing the female doctor, holding a clipboard. Oh Jesus, don't let me die, I want to cry, but no sound comes out. I'm breathing... am I not?I mean I don't feel like I'm breathing, but my lungs seem to be fine, my lungs don't throb and constrict like they do when diving deep, so I must be fine, right? Unless you're dead, murmured a low voice, your lungs don't need air any more, do they?No, because the dead man's lungs don't need to breathe anymore, the dead man's lungs are just a kind of... Take it easy.

Rusty: "What are you doing next Saturday night, Doctor?" But if I die, how will I feel?How can I smell the bag that holds me?How can I hear these voices?The doctor said she was going to give her dog, Rusty, a bath next Saturday night, and that was a wonderful statement.Everyone laughed.If I'm dead, why isn't my consciousness gone, or shrouded in white light like people talk about on The Oprah Winfrey Show? With a rough tearing sound, I was suddenly exposed to white light, blinding, like the winter sun passing through a thick curtain of clouds, I tried to squint to block the glare, but I couldn't move, My eyelids are like shutters with broken scrolls.

A face looms over me, blocking some of the glare, which comes not from a skylight but from a row of fluorescent lights on the ceiling.It was a young face, conventionally a handsome face of about twenty-five.He looked like the beach guy from "Baywatch" or "Melrods Place," except he was more bookish.Beneath the light green surgeon's cap, which was casually worn, was a head of dark hair and dark blue eyes, the kind girls go crazy for; gray freckles running down to the cheekbones.He also wears a coat. "Hey! Whoa!" he exclaimed, a third voice, "This guy looks like Michelle Bolton! Just a little older, maybe..." He moved closer.A strap of the green coat hangs over my forehead. "But I think it's really like, Hey, Michelle, sing." help me!I wanted to sing, but all I could do was stare into his dark blue eyes with dead, immobile eyes.I just want to know if I am dead, and if so, how did I die?What scenario does everyone go through after their heart stops beating?If I were alive, my pupils would shrink when light hit them, why didn't he see?I know why...or so I think: my pupils don't constrict, which is why it hurts so much when the bright light from that fluorescent lamp comes in. The strap scratched my forehead lightly like a feather. help me!I yelled at the beach guy in "Baywatch."He's probably just an intern, maybe he's just a med school brat, please help me! My lips didn't even tremble. The face receded, the straps stopped scratching my head, and there was just the white light that kept pouring into my mind from my eyes that I couldn't look away, and it was an intimidating feeling, a rape.If I had been staring at the fluorescent lights for too long, I would have gone blind, but being blind would be a relief. Snapped!The sound of a golf club hitting a ball, but not so loud this time.The club doesn't feel right, the ball goes up and it goes off course, off...off...damn it! I'm still playing. At this moment, another face came into my view. He was wearing a white coat instead of green, and his brown hair was matted like a mop.My first impression was low IQ.He must be Rusty, with that dumb smirk that looks to me like a high school kid's smirk, the kind of kid with "Born to work" tattooed on their non-working biceps. Rip off the bra" tattoo. "Michelle!" Rusty yelled, "tsk tsk, you look good! What an honor to sing for us, bigwig, until you fucking die." From somewhere behind me came the doctor's voice, grim but not pretending to laugh at the buffoons' performance as before. "That's enough, Rusty." Then came her voice from a little off: "What's going on, Mike?" Mike's voice was that of the first voice - Rusty's accomplice.Working with a guy who wanted to be Andrew Deskray when he grew up, his voice sounded a bit awkward. "Found him on the edge of the 14th hole at Derry Golf Course, off the course and hadn't actually finished the round. If it wasn't for a foursome match going on, if those players hadn't spotted one of his feet sticking out of the bushes Outside, he's probably eaten by ants now." I heard that sound in my head—crack—only this time there was another sound of mild surprise in my head: the rustle of the bushes as my golf club swept by.It may be the location of the 14th hole. It is said that there is kudzu (a North American climbing plant, after the skin touches this plant, the contact point will be very painful.), kudzu and... Rusty stared at me with his expression down. Silly and eager, it wasn't my death that interested him, but my resemblance to Michelle Bolton.Oh yes, I get it, these jokes are not to be made on certain women, or they won't be funny anytime soon.In such an environment... Sigh... "Is the attending doctor Kasalian?" the female doctor asked. "No." Mike said.He looked down at me for a moment. He was at least ten years older than Rusty.He has black hair with a few strands of gray and white, and wears glasses.How come no one sees that I'm not dead? "Actually, a doctor who participated in the 4-player match found him. His signature is on the first page. Do you want to see it?" After a sound of flipping through papers, "God, Jennings, I know him. He gave Noah his body after Noah's Ark landed on Mount Ararat." Rusty didn't seem like he was joking, but he laughed straight into my face.I can smell the onion on his breath, I must be breathing... I must be breathing, right?As long as—before I fully realized it, Rusty bent down even more, I felt very hopeful of being found out that I wasn't dead.He saw some signs of life.He saw it and wanted to give me mouth-to-mouth mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.God bless you, Rusty, God bless you and your onion smell! But his stupid smirk remained the same.Instead of pointing his mouth at mine, he wrapped his hands around my chin, and then clasped one side of my chin with his thumb and the other with his fingers. "He's alive!" Rusty yelled. "He's alive and he's going to sing to the people in room 4 of the Michelle Bolton fan club!" His fingers gripped tighter - the pain came from my novocaine-like state - and began to move my jaw up and down.My teeth click, click. "If she hates, he can't see," he sang in an obnoxiously out-of-key voice that might have blown Percy Sranger's head off. "She's no longer..." My mouth opened and closed under the rough movement of his hand.My tongue rises and falls like a dead dog on a turbulent waterbed. "Stop!" The female doctor stopped him.She was really pissed off.Rusty probably sensed it, but didn't stop but continued gleefully, his fingers now digging into my cheeks.My immobile eyes stared blankly upward. "If she lets him... he'll turn his back on his friend," he continued. She stood there in a long green coat, with a hat tied back at the throat like a salmon kid's Mexican cap, brown complexion, and a pretty face, but strictly speaking it was charming rather than pretty.She grabbed Rusty with one clipped hand and pulled him away from me. "Hey!" Rusty exasperated, "get your hands off me!" "Get your hands off him first!" she said, with real anger in her voice. "Rusty, I'm tired of your low-level cleverness. Next time you do it again, I'll report it to the courtyard." "Hey, everyone, calm down!" said the doctor's assistant, the handsome bay lifeguard.His voice was warning, as if he thought Rusty and his superiors would fight here. "We'll stop there." "Why is she treating me like a bitch?" Rusty said, still trying to look angry but actually whining.Then Rusty's voice came from a slightly different direction: "Why are you treating me like a bitch? Are you on your period?" The doctor's voice sounded very annoying to him: "Tell him out!" Mike: "Come on, Rusty, let's go check the records." Rusty: "Okay, get some fresh air." For me it's like listening to the radio. Their footsteps made their way to the door.Still resentful and sad, Rusty asked her why she didn't wear a mood ring or something to let people know she was in a bad mood.The soft soles creaked on the tiles, and suddenly the sound was replaced by the sound of me swinging my golf club, beating the bushes looking for my ball, where is it?Must be around, I'm sure.Must be around, man, I hate the 14th hole, I hear there's kudzu, all in this bush, so it's easy to get...something bites me, doesn't it?Yes.I was almost certainly bitten, on top of a white gym sock on my left calf.I felt a hot needle-like pain, concentrated at this point, then spread out... and then it was dark, until I was lying on the gurney, lying comfortably in the zipped body bag , to hear Mike and Rusty's voices ("Which room are they talking about?" "I think it was number 4, yes, number 4."). I thought it might be some kind of snake, because that's what I thought when I was looking for the ball, or it might be a kind of bug.I can only recall a thread of pain, does this help?The important thing is that I'm still alive and none of them know it.Of course I was unlucky in the first place -- I knew Dr. Jennings and I remember talking to him playing the 11th hole through their foursome.A reasonably nice guy, but absent-minded and relic.That old antique has pronounced me dead.Then Rusty pronounced me dead, too, with his goofy green eyes and smirk like a bad boy.The female doctor, Mrs. Salmon, hasn't looked at me yet, hasn't looked me in the eye.Maybe after she saw it... "I hate that idiot," she said after the door closed.There are only 3 of us now.Of course Mrs. Salmon thinks it's just the two of them. "Peter, why do I never get along with these idiots?" "I don't know," said Mr. Melrods Square, "but Rusty is a special case, and even in the annals of famous fools he's a dead-head." She laughed, and something jingled.That's from the collision of stainless steel surgical knives.This freaks me out.They walked away, leaving me alone, and although I couldn't see them, I knew what they were going to do: an autopsy!They're going to cut me open!They were going to take Howard Cottrell's heart to see if it had been poisoned or if it had ruptured. my leg!I screamed in my heart, look at my left leg, the problem is there, not my heart! Maybe I can move a little more now.I can barely see a stainless steel appliance right now that looks like a giant piece of dental equipment, except the bottom end of the thing isn't a drill.It's a chainsaw!Some tiny knowledge hidden in the brain will only appear when you are in danger and need it. I have seen its name on TV, it is called "Keegari Saw".They use it to slice through the top of your skull, but cover your face first, like a Halloween mask for kids.And of course shave off all the hair. Then they take your brain tissue. Click, click, click, pause for a moment, then click again, very loud, and startle me, if I could dance. "Are you going to do a heart sac dissection?" she asked. Peter was curious: "Do you want me to?" Dr. Salmon's voice sounded cheerful, like someone giving help and tasks: "Yes, I think." "Okay," he said, "will you help me?" "I'm your reliable co-pilot." She said with a smile, specially making a scissors sound for fun. At this time, the pain and panic in my head were like a flock of frightened birds locked in an attic.Vietnam was a long way from me, and I'd seen half a dozen field autopsies there, in what the doctors called a "tent autopsy show" back then.I know what salmon and dudes want to do.The blades of the scissors are long and sharp, very sharp, and there are huge finger holes, so you need enough strength to use them.The tip of the scissors slides into the gut like butter and snaps up through the gastric nerve bundle, cutting into the muscles and tendons above, and down to the sternum.After a heavy creak, the scissors closed and the sternum was cut open.The ribs, which had been held together by bony knots, were separated like two rows of gun barrels.After that use the same pair of scissors that a butcher in a supermarket uses to cut poultry - snap, crunch, snap, crunch, part the bones, snip the muscles, take out the lungs with the trachea, and turn me Howard the Conqueror into a Thanksgiving that no one eats feast. There was a small continuous whine - it sure sounded like a dentist's drill. Peter: "I can—" Dr. Salmon's voice was actually a bit maternal: "No, that's right." Clicking, clicking, he demonstrated it to him. They can't do that!I thought, you can't cut me open, I still have feelings! "Why?" he asked. "Because that's the way I want it," she said, with much less motherhood in her voice. "When you can do it yourself, little Peter, you can do what you want, but in Katie Aaron's coroner's room, you have to start with the heart-scissors." Autopsy room!This is the end.I'm going to get goosebumps all over my body, but of course I won't.My meat was as smooth as ever. "Remember," Dr. Aaron said (she was actually lecturing), "any fool can learn to use a milking machine...but hand milking is still best." There was something suggestive in her tone. "OK?" "Okay," he said. They're about to start.I have to make some noise or move, or it really starts.They'll know something's wrong if blood oozes or spurts on the first cut, but by then it's probably too late.After the first click, my ribs would rest against my upper arms, and my heart would beat wildly in the bloody heart sac under the cold white fluorescent light. I focus on my chest, I push, want... finally! sound! I made a noise! Almost close to my lips, but I could hear it too, and feel it in my nose - a low hum. Concentrating and pulling out all the stops, I snorted again, a little louder this time, coming out of my nostrils, like smoke from a cigarette, uh... it reminded me of Al Fred Hitchcock's TV show, in which Joseph Conte becomes paralyzed in a car accident and finally lets people know he's alive by shedding a single tear. If nothing else, this faint, mosquito-like hum proved that I was still alive, that I was not a wandering spirit among statuesque corpses. Concentrate all the will, I can feel the breath in the nose, the air goes all the way to the throat, not just breathing, I have to take a deep breath now, and then send the air out, working harder than when I was working in the Remu construction company when I was a teenager, Work harder than I've ever worked in my life because I'm working for my life right now.They must hear MY voice, Lord Jesus, they must hear! Humph-- "Would you like some music?" asked the woman doctor. "I've got Mattie Stewart's, Tony Bennett's—" His reply was disappointing, I could barely hear it, and it was perhaps a fluke on me that he didn't catch what she was saying right away. "Well," she laughed, "I have the Rolling Stones, too." "you?" "I-I'm not as prim as I seem, Peter." "That's not what I meant..." He was a little embarrassed. listen!I'm screaming in my head while my eyes are still staring at the cold white light, don't chatter like a magpie, listen to me! I could feel more and more air seeping into my throat and the thought that no matter what happened to me, this would pass.But the thought only flickered in my mind.Maybe I'm starting to recover, but soon I won't have the option to recover.All my energy goes into making them hear me, and this time they will, I'm sure. "Listen to the Rolling Stones then," she said, "unless you want me to run out and buy a Michelle Bolton record in honor of your first heart sac dissection." "Oh no!" he yelled, and they started laughing. I started making noises, louder this time, not as loud as I'd hoped, but enough, loud enough for sure.They will hear, they will. Just as I start to force the sound to rush out of my nose like a fast-curing liquid, the room fills with bass guitar strumming and Mick Giger's voice bouncing off the walls: "Ah-no, Just rock and roll, I like..." "Reject it," Dr. Salmon sang, very loudly.In these noises, my nasal voice hummed desperately from my nostrils, not much louder than the sound of glass blowing in a glass workshop. At this moment she looked down at me.Seeing her in the Pyrexi goggle and wire mesh face mask gave me a new sense of dread.She turned to Peter and said, "I'll help you undress him." She turned her head toward me, scalpel gleaming in her hand, and bent over the sound of Rolling Stones guitars. I was humming like hell, but to no avail, I couldn't even hear myself. The scalpel gestured and stabbed down. I screamed in my head, but there was no pain, just my pold shirt split in half and scattered on my sides.That's what my ribcage will look like later on, after Peter's half-knowledgeable first dissection of the heart sac in a living person. I was lifted up with my head hanging back.A moment later, I was looking backwards to see Peter standing next to the steel cabinet in his Perexie goggle, taking stock of a formidable array of knives, chief among which were oversized scissors.I just caught a glimpse, the blade was shining white, like a cold and ruthless satin.Then I was laid flat again, and my shirt had been stripped, and now I was naked from the waist up, and it was cold in the room. look at my chest!I yell at her.You'll see it rise and fall, no matter how weak my breath is!You bloody expert, for Christ's sake. She didn't strike, but turned her head to look, and raised her voice over the music. ("I like it, I like it, yes, I like it," the Rolling Stones sang. I think I'll hear the chorus of nasal idiots in the halls of hell, listen forever) "What do you choose? Boxers or briefs pants?" Shocked and angry, I realized what they were talking about. "Bongs, of course," he replied. "Just look at that guy." asshole!I want to curse, do you think everyone over 40 wears boxer pants?You probably think you're over 40—she ripped open my board shorts and zipped them down.I would have been terribly happy to have a pretty woman (not strictly speaking, but still pretty) do that in other circumstances, but today—"You lost, little Peter," she said, "Briefs , pay for it." "It's the day when the salary is paid." He said and walked over, put his face next to hers, and looked at me through the Pyrexi mask together, like a pair of aliens examining abducted earthlings.I wanted to make them look me in the eye, make them see that I was looking at them, but these two fools were looking at my panties. "Oh, red," said Peter, "unisex." "I prefer to say fuchsia," she said. "Hand it up for me, Peter. He weighs a ton. No wonder he had a heart attack. That's a lesson for you." I'm in normal shape!I yell at her, probably in better shape than you!bitch! My arm was suddenly lifted by a strong hand, and my back made a crisp sound, which startled me. "I'm sorry, man," said Peter.After my shorts and panties were ripped off, I felt even colder. "T-a-ah-once," she said, lifting one of my feet, "T-a-ah-twice." Lifting my other foot, "Take off the flats, take off the socks- " She stopped suddenly.This again gave me hope. "Hey, Peter." "what?" "Do guys usually play golf in board shorts and flats?" Behind her (that's the only source of sound, which actually surrounds us), the Rolling Stones have switched to "Emotional Salvation." "In shining armor, I'll be your knight..." Mick Jagger sings.I thought of how annoying it would be to dance with three rows of bombshells stuffed in the back of Mick's skinny ass and me without a knight to save me! "If you ask me, this guy is asking for trouble," she continued. "I think they wear a special kind of shoe, very professional, but very ugly. There are little knots on the sole—" "Yeah, but it doesn't have to be," Peter said, putting his gloved hands together above my face, pressing his fingers back.As the knuckles clicked, the talcum powder fell like a heavy snow. "At least not right now. Unlike bowling shoes, if you bowl without them, they send you to state prison." "Really?" "real." "Are you going to do a full body check?" No!I screamed, no, he's just a brat, what are you doing? He looked at her and seemed to have the same thought in his mind. "That's, uh--not quite right, well, Katie, I mean..." She surveyed the room wryly as he said these words.I was beginning to feel that this was very bad news for me: Seriously or not, I thought Salmon, aka Dr. Katie Aaron, had developed a lust for Peter with his dark blue eyes.OMG, they dragged me paralyzed from the golf course into a hospital romance drama!This week's foil episode is titled: Love Blooms in Autopsy Room 4. "Tsk," she said deliberately to herself, "there's no one else here except you and me." "The tape—" "I haven't started recording yet!" she said. "After I start recording, I'll be by your side to guide you every step of the way...that's all you'll know. I probably just want to get rid of the charts and slides. If you're really embarrassed -" right!I yelled at him with my immobilized mouth: embarrassing, very embarrassing, so embarrassing! But at most 24 years old, what would he want to say to this beautiful and serious female doctor standing together and interfering with himself in a complex way?No, mother, am I afraid?Besides, he wants to do it.I can see that surge of desire jumping through the blindfold, like a bunch of angry punk rock fans jumping to the Rolling Stones. "Hey, as long as you cover me, if—" "Of course," she said, "sometimes you have to experience it for yourself. If you really want my help, Peter, I can rewind the tape." "Can you do that?" She smiled and said in a German accent: "We have many secrets in autopsy room No. 4, my sir." "I'm sure you will," he said, smiling back, and stepping out of my immobile view.When his hand reappeared, it was wrapped around a microphone with a black wire hanging from the ceiling, it looked like a steel earring, and seeing it hanging there made me feel less scared than I did at first up.Surely they didn't really want to cut me open, did they?Peter's a novice but he's trained and he's bound to see something bite me when I'm looking for the ball and they'll at least be suspicious, they've got to be. I still see the scissors gleaming cruelly and slickly—like a murderous poultry shear.I wondered if I was alive when they took my heart out of my chest, held it, dripping blood, dangled it in my immobile gaze, and plopped it on the scales ?I thought I might survive, I did.Didn't it mean that the brain can maintain consciousness for three minutes after the heart stops beating? "Ready, Doctor," Peter said, his voice returning to seriousness and the tape spinning somewhere. The autopsy begins. "Let's turn this pancake over," she said cheerfully.I was flipped over so quickly.My right arm slammed to the side, then slammed to the edge of the table again, and my bicep hit the protruding metal edge. It hurt, just a short sharp pain, and I didn't care.I hope the metal edge breaks the skin, I hope it bleeds.This is something that real corpses cannot do. "This way," Dr. Allen said.She raised my right arm and lowered it heavily beside me. That's when I noticed that my nose was suffering.The nose hit the autopsy table hard.For the first time, my lungs sent out a painful message—a sense of endless pressure.My mouth was closed and my nose was compressed so I couldn't breathe a little (I can't tell how much I couldn't even feel like I was breathing, it really was).What if I just suffocate to death like this? Another thing that took my attention away from the nose completely.A large glass bat-like object was thrust roughly into my rectum.I screamed again, but all I could do was a weak, pathetic grunt. "Plug in the thermometer," Peter said. "I've set the timer." "Good idea." She made room for him to try it out, let him try the knife with me.The music is slightly lowered in volume. "Subject is Caucasian, age 44," Peter said into the microphone, which he recorded for posterity, "his name is Howard Randolph Cottrell and he lives at 1566 Laurel Lane, Derry." Dr. Aaron said not far away, "Marymead." Peter paused and continued, his voice a little excited: "Dr. Aaron told me that the subject actually lives in Marymead, which has been divided from Derry—" "Peter, that's enough, don't take history class." God, what did they put in my anus?Some kind of livestock thermometer?I think it could have been longer.I could feel the top being bubbly.Won't he use some lube?But why use it?I am absolutely dead. dead. "I'm sorry," Peter said.He searched nervously for a feeling, and finally calmed down. "This information is from an ambulance form, originally collected from a Maine driver's license. The identifying physician was, uh... Frank Jennings, and the subject was pronounced dead at the scene." Now I want my nose to bleed, quick, I beg my nose to bleed, don't just bleed, squirt. The nose is indifferent. "The cause of death was probably a heart attack," Peter said.Hands gently brushed from my bare back to my crotch.I prayed he would pull out that thermometer, but no. "The spine is intact and there are no suspicious phenomena." Suspicious phenomenon?Suspicious phenomenon?What the hell do you think I am, a mosquito trap? He lifted my head and rested his fingers on my cheekbones.I hummed like hell, huh-knowing he couldn't hear me over Kane Richard's screeching guitar, but I wished he could feel the vibrations in my nasal passages. Instead of feeling it, he turned my head away. "The neck was visibly undamaged and not stiff," he noted.I just want him to drop my head and smack my face on the autopsy table, which will make my nose bleed unless I'm actually dead.但是他却温柔体贴地把我的头放下，鼻尖又一次被压住，再次使我有窒息而亡的明显可能。 “背部和臀部没有明显的伤。”他说，“尽管大腿上有个明显的旧疤痕，看起来像某种伤，也许是榴弹片造成的，是个难看的疤。” 是难看，是榴弹片造成的。在那场战争快结束时，一发迫击炮落到了供给区，造成两个死亡；还有一个人，就是我，幸运地活了下来。大腿正面和更敏感的部位还有难看得多的伤痕，但所有器官都能正常……直到现在。起初在这个疤痕向左6毫米的地方，医生提供了一个手泵和二氧化碳罐供亲热时用。 他终于拔出了体温计，噢，老天，终于松了一口气。我看见他拿着体温计的影子映在墙上。 “34.6度。”他说，“啧，不算太糟糕，这家伙可能还没死，凯蒂……亚伦医师。” “别忘了是在哪里发现他的。”她在房间的另一头说。他们正在听的磁带处于停顿处，使我能清楚地听到她以讲课式的声音说：“高尔夫球场夏天的下午，如果你读到37度，我都不奇怪。” “对对，”他附和着，听起来像是在纠错，接着又说，“这些在磁带上听起来很好笑吗？”意思是：在磁带上我听起来很傻吗？ “这听起来像在上课，”她说，“就是这样。” "Okay, okay, great." 他戴着橡胶手套的手指掰开我的臀部，随后一路掰下来，一直到大腿。我此时紧张起来，如果能紧张的话。 左腿，我要告诉他：左腿，小彼得，左小腿，看见了吗？ 他肯定会看见，肯定会，因为我能感到那地方像被蜂蜇一样火辣辣的，或是像被一个笨手笨脚的护士扎了一针，她把注射液打到了肌肉里而不是血管里。 “穿短裤打高尔夫球确实是很糟糕的做法，而对象是这个糟糕做法的好榜样。”他说。我发现自己在希望他是瞎子，妈的，天生的瞎子，这样他就得靠触觉。“我正看见各种虫子咬的伤口，沙虱咬的，抓的……” “迈克说他们是在草丛区发现他的。”亚伦回忆，她正噼里啪啦地在记录，听起来好像在餐馆的厨房里而不是在记录档案。“我想他一定是在找球时心脏病发作。” "uh-huh." “继续，彼得，你做得很好。” 我却觉得他所说的很令人怀疑。 "it is good." 他继续查看，动作温柔，也许太温柔了。 “在左小腿上有蚊子咬的痕迹，看起来像感染了。”他说道。尽管他的触摸仍然温柔，但这次伤口却非常痛，如果我能发出比这个低哼声大的声音，我会尖叫起来。我突然想到我的命运可能取决于他们正在听的滚石乐队的磁带的长度。一直就认为它是磁带，而不是能直接放完的光盘。如果在他们剖开我之前它就放完……如果在他们中的一个把磁带换一面之前……我能哼得够大声使他们听见。 “在总体检验后，我还想看看那虫咬的伤口。”她说，“如果我们对他的心脏判断是正确的，那就不必看了。你要我现在就看吗？你觉得伤口有什么不妥吗？” “不，很清楚是蚊子叮的。”这个吉佩尔傻瓜说，“伤口肿大四周蔓延，他被叮了5、7、8下，啧啧，单左腿就几乎有一打了。” “他忘了用驱虫剂。” “别说驱虫剂，他连心脏病的药都忘了。”他说。两人一起欢快地笑起来，验尸室里充满幽默。 这次，他独自——也许他喜欢用他在健身房练出来的肌肉——把我的身体翻过来，这样他们再也看不见蛇咬的和蚊子叮的伤，伤口被遮住了。彼得向后退，退出了我的视野，我又在盯着那排日光灯。一阵嗡嗡的声响后，验尸台开始倾斜了。我知道这是为什么：当他们把我剖开时，血就会向下流到在台基部的收集点。 当他查看我的脸时，我想聚集所有意志来闭上眼睛，然而连一丝抽搐我都做不到。在周六下午，我要的是打到第18洞，而不是变成有胸毛的白雪公主躺在这里。我一直在想，当那家禽剪插入我的肉体时感觉将会如何？ 彼得一只手上拿着笔记板，看完后就放在了一边，然后就对着麦克风说话。他的声音现在低了很多，他已做出了他这一生中最可怕的误诊，但他却浑然不知，还开始动手了。 “1994年8月20日星期六下午5点49分，我开始验尸。”他说。 他分开我的唇，查看我的牙齿，像个要买马的人，随后又把我的下颚拉下。“颜色正常。”他说，“脸颊没有淤斑。”余音在麦克风淡出时，我听到喀哒一声，他踩了一下脚踏板暂停录音。“老兄，这家伙真的可能活着！” 我疯狂地哼着，这时候亚伦医生碰落了什么东西，听起来像便盒落地的声音。“他肯定不想死！”她笑着说。他也跟着笑了起来。这时我希望他们得癌症，那种没法治又能拖得很久的癌症！ 很快地，他就检查到了我的躯干，摸着我的胸部（“没有淤血和伤肿或心搏停止的外在迹象。”他说，真他妈的让他大吃一惊），接着就按我的肚子。 我打嗝。 他瞪大眼睛看着我，微微张开了嘴。我想再次拼命地哼，明知道他在听滚石乐队的《让我动起来》而无法听到，但还是希望他终于愿意看看他面前的对象是否真的死了——“霍伊（霍华德的昵称），你为自己找了个活着的借口。”亚伦医师说。那婊子在我后面咯咯地笑。“最好谨慎点，彼得，这些尸嗝最能迷惑人的。” 他夸张地在鼻子前扇了扇，然后继续检查。他几乎没有碰我的裆部，尽管他说我右大腿背面的疤痕延伸到了前面。 我心想：你漏了一处，可能是因为在稍高出你视线的地方。不过没什么大不了的，我的小帅哥，但你也没有发现我仍活着，这才是最重要的。 他继续对着麦克风念念有词，听起来越来越随意了（实际上听起来有点像小说《昆西》中的杰克·克拉曼）。我知道他的同伴在我后面不远处，这个医疗委员会的盲目乐观的家伙并不认为她得把这段验尸磁带倒回去。除了彼得没发现他的第一个心囊解剖对象是活人之外，这孩子干得不错。 最后他说：“我想我已经准备就绪了，医师。”尽管声音还不那么肯定。 她走过来，瞥了我一眼，然后捏了捏彼得的肩膀说：“好吧，开始表演。” 我现在想把舌头伸出来，就像天真的孩子做出的粗鲁动作。但这可够难的……我好像感觉到嘴深处有微弱的刺痛感，那是从一个大剂量的奴佛卡因麻醉中恢复过来时才感受到的刺痛。我能感觉到抽搐吗？不，那只是一厢情愿。 对了，对了，但一个抽搐就意味着一切，我再试一次。还是不能。 当彼得拿起剪刀时，滚石乐队正在唱《悬火》。 拿面镜子放在我鼻子前面！我冲他们大叫，看看那雾气！你们至少也该试一下！ 剪，剪，再剪。 彼得把剪刀转了个角度，这样光线就照到了刀锋上。我一下子就肯定，真的肯定这个疯狂的哑谜会一直持续到结束。主持人没有限定范围，裁判不会在十回合后结束战斗。我们不会停下来听发起人讲一个字的。小彼得将用那些剪刀插入我的内脏，而我却只能无助地躺在这里，接着他将像打开从豪周饰品店寄来的邮购包裹那样带着惊喜打开我的胸膛。 他犹豫地看着亚伦医师。 No!我哀号着，我的声音在我的头骨里回荡着，但根本不从我嘴里蹦出来，不，请别！ 她点点头，“继续，你做得很好！” “呃……你要把音乐关掉吗？” Yep!把它关掉。 “是不是干扰你了？” 对，当然干扰他了，他真他妈的完全认为他的病人已经死了。 "Ok……" “好吧。”她说着从我视野消失了。过了一会儿，米克和凯恩的声音终于消失了。我想发出哼声却发现一个可怕的情况：我现在甚至连哼都哼不出来了，因为我吓傻了！惊吓已锁住了我的声带。当她过来和他一起解剖时，我只能瞪眼。这两个人注视着我，就像送葬者注视着还没覆土的坟墓。 “谢谢。”他说，接着深吸了一口气并拿起剪刀，“开始心囊解剖。” 他缓缓地移动剪刀，我看见了！Saw!接着剪刀又从我视野里消失。好一阵子后，我感觉到冰冷的钢具放在了我裸露的上腹上。 He looked at her suspiciously. “你能肯定你不——” “你想不想掌握这方面的技术，彼得？”她带着些粗暴打断他的话。 “你知道我想，但——” "Then do it." 他点点头，抿着嘴。如果我能，我会闭上眼睛，然而我不能。我只能使自己坚强起来面对一两秒后的痛苦，刚强地面对钢剪。 “开剪了！”他说着弯下了腰。 “等等！”她叫了起来。 我太阳丛神经下的紧张减缓了点。他惊奇而不解地看着她，也许松了口气——关键的时刻被推迟了。 我感到她戴着橡胶手套的手握住了我的阴茎，似乎她想为我进行非同寻常的手淫，和死人的安全性爱。她说：“彼得，你还没有检查这里。” 他凑过去，看看她发现了什么——我裆部的疤痕，右大腿根部，光滑没有毛孔的碗状疤痕。 她的手仍扶着我的阴茎，把它拉起来，这就是她所做的。对她来讲好像是掀起沙发垫让其他人看看她在垫子底下发现了什么宝物——硬币，丢失的钱包，也许还有你一直没有找到的樟脑丸——但有件事正悄悄发生。 亲爱的基督终于坐着轮椅拄着拐杖来了。 “看。”她说，手指轻轻划了条记号线一直到我的睾丸。“看看这些线状的疤痕，他的睾丸过去一定肿得像葡萄柚那么大。” “他很幸运没丢掉睾丸。” “你猜对了！”她又带着点挑逗性地笑了起来。她戴着手套的手松开，移到上方把我的阴茎用力压下去，想看清这个部位。她无意中做了你可能得花25或30美元特地去做的事，当然是在别的环境里。“我认为这是战争留下的伤。彼得，把放大镜给我。” “可是不是应该由我……” “等几秒，他不会跑掉的。”她说，完全沉浸在她的发现中，手仍然在我阴茎上压着，好像要一直这么压着，它已经有变化了，好像仍在变化。但也许我错了，我一定错了，要不然他应该会看见它的变化，而她应该能感觉到。 她弯下腰来，我只能看见她绿色大褂的背部。两条带子从她的帽子上垂下来，像两条古怪的辫子。现在，天哪，我那儿能感觉到她的呼吸。 “注意那个向外的辐射状伤疤。”她说，“是某种炸伤，可能至少有10年了，我们可以看看他的服役记录——” 门猛地被推开，彼得惊叫起来。亚伦医师没有叫，但手却不由自主地抓紧了。她紧抓着，就像过去的淘气护士奇幻故事的另一个该死版本。 “别动刀！”有人尖叫着，音调又高又激昂，还带着惊吓，我差点听不出是拉斯蒂。“别动刀，他的高尔夫球袋里有条蛇，还咬了迈克！” 他们吃惊地转向他，瞪大眼，张着嘴。她的手仍抓着我，但她根本没意识到，至少从那一刻起；而小彼得也不再注意，他的一只手紧抓在手术大褂的左胸位置，他看起来像一个用尽燃料的抽水机。 “什么……你说什么……”彼得老半天才反应过来。 “他昏过去了！”拉斯蒂急急忙忙地说，“我猜他会恢复过来，但现在几乎不能说话。棕色小蛇，我从没见过，它跑到装货间下面去了，现在就在下面，但这不重要了。我想它还咬了我们推进来的那家伙，我想……哇！医师你想干什么？抚摩他使他苏醒？” 她茫然四顾，一开始还没有明白他在说什么……直到意识到自己正抓着一支几乎勃起的阴茎时，才突然尖叫起来，从彼得下垂的、戴着手套的手里夺过剪刀——我发现自己又在回忆阿尔弗雷德·希区柯克的古老电视剧了。 可怜的约瑟夫·康顿，他只会哭。 从我在4号验尸室的经历到现在已经1年半了，尽管瘫痪既顽固又可怕，我总算康复过来了。整整过了1个月，我的手指和脚趾才能活动自如。现在我仍不会弹钢琴，不过我本来就不会。这只是个玩笑，我不会对此道歉。我想，在我遭遇不幸的头3个月里，我能享受的玩笑只能靠微弱却有生命、介于健全和神经破坏之间的身体来体会。除非你真的体验了那种验尸剪的尖头刺入你胃里的感觉，否则你无法体会我所说的。 大约在我出事的2个星期后，住在杜蓬特街的一个妇女打电话给德里警察局，抱怨隔壁房子里传出恶臭。那幢房子是一个在银行工作的叫瓦尔特·柯尔的单身汉的。警察发现房子里没人住，在地下室发现60多种不同种类的蛇。其中约有一半已经死了——饿死和脱水而死，但很多蛇仍非常有生命力，很危险。有几条还是珍稀品种。在咨询蛇类专家后发现其中有一种在中世纪就灭绝了。 8月22日柯尔没去德里社区银行上班，就是我被咬之后两天，我的遭遇被报道之后一天（报纸上的标题是：瘫痪的男人逃过死亡验尸。有一处引用了我的话：我已经“被吓呆了”）。 柯尔地下室的蛇展里，每只笼子里都装了一条蛇，除了一个空笼子之外。那个空的笼子没有标记。那条从我高尔夫球杆袋里冒出来的蛇一直没找到（救护人员把球杆袋和我的尸体一起收走，并一直用我的球杆在停车场练习削球）。我血液里的毒素和救护人员迈克·霍普血液里的毒素基本相同，这已被记录但从没进行鉴定。在那年随后的日子里，我翻阅了大量有关蛇类的书籍。据书上记载，至少有一种蛇能使人类全身瘫痪，叫秘鲁树蛇——非常危险的毒蛇。人们认为它在20世纪20年代就灭绝了。杜蓬特街离德里市的高尔夫球场不到1公里。两者之间大多是低矮的灌木和空地。 最后要说的是，凯蒂·亚伦和我谈了4个月恋爱，从1994年11月到1995年2月。我们因为相互抱怨对方而分手，原因是在性方面不和谐。 除非她戴着橡胶手套，否则我勃不起来。 作者按：我认为每个恐怖故事的作者或多或少都必须涉及早逝这个情节，因为似乎只有这个主题能如此广泛地令人生畏。当我还是7岁左右的孩子时，最恐怖的电视节目是阿尔弗雷德·希区柯克的电视剧。在这些电视剧中，最让人恐怖的——我和朋友们都一致认为是主角约瑟夫·康顿在车祸中受伤，伤得很厉害，人们甚至无法发现他的心跳，就认为他已死了。医生准备给他验尸——把他切开，而实际上他还活着，心里十分害怕，换句话说就是，他害怕得流出了一滴眼泪，以此让人们知道他还活着。这是一个感人的情节，但感人不是我的剧本常备的要素。在构思这个情节时，我用了一种更——是否可以说现代——的方式来叙述。这个故事就是这样讲述的。最后想说的是关于那条蛇，我不大相信有秘鲁树蛇这样的蛇，但在戴姆·阿格莎·克里斯蒂的作品《马普尔小姐号》的一个故事中提到非洲树蛇，我只是很喜欢这个名称（树蛇，不是非洲），就把它用在这里了。