Devil's Sexton
An AFIS production - 6th full length installment in the Boston series
Obviously, I don't own these characters or their universe. If I did, I wouldn't be on posting stuff for the fanboys/fangirls. So don't sue the poor grad student.
A/N - It's been awhile, but I'm back...sort of. My last one-shot (Tahitian Sunset) didn't end on the right note, in my opinion, so I decided to interrupt my self-imposed hiatus to give all of my long-term readers a little bit more closure.
- Prologue -
"It smells like shit."
Two lone men shuffled through the damp fog, ignoring the mud beginning to cake upon their ill-fitting jeans. The younger of the two shook his head in frustration, a weak attempt to get the rank smell from his nose. With long blonde curls framing his face like a male model gracing the covers of hipster magazines, one could almost forget that his bedraggled appearance and sweaty aroma marked him and his accomplice as just another member of the growing homeless population rising up to take Boston's streets after the sun dimmed behind the horizon.
After shuffling forward in the heavy fog for several seconds, the elder of the two stopped all forward movement, his feet sinking into the muddy molasses like it had paid six months' rent upfront and was all too happy to move in. A wet cough bellowed from his mouth, the wet cough of the terminally ill. The younger winced before shivering to a stop next to the elder.
Thick fog continued to hover ominously around the two, demanding their attention but still ignored. In protest, the fog continued to roll through the area, obscuring all but two lone trees in the distance keeping silent guard. Two cones of light broke through the soupy white vapor along with the sound of an expensive sport-bike using the empty roads as an opportunity to unleash its true speed on the asphalt.
"Man…don't you smell that? It really does smell like shit."
The elder turned with a dramatic eye-roll before resuming his search of the fog for a hidden sign of…something. "It only smells because you refuse to shower on a regular basis, Trey." He jerked the young man's flannel shirt, shaking his head at the clumps of dirt that dropped down in response. "Being homeless doesn't mean you get a free pass to stop trying to be civil."
"Easy for you to say, old man. I don't have the benefit of a social security check to keep me afloat."
Another wet cough from the elder interrupted the short conversation, this time forcing him to double over and spit out a chunk of coagulated mass of diseased lung, saliva, and mucus that sat on the mud around their feet in disgust. Even Mother Nature didn't want the refuse of the diseased as the wad of shit continued to wait to be absorbed on the soil. Trey looked upon the man in boredom. He slapped him in the middle of his back after several seconds of waiting, clearly trying to speed along this process of late-night trolling in forbidden locations.
"C'mon," Trey whined, looking around the heavy fog. "We don't got all day. Let's go get the shit so we can get you back to your hermetically sealed casket."
The elder laughed weakly. "You'll need a hospice one day too, you know."
"Well, that day is a long way off. I'm twenty-six and you're sixty-five. You're on the way out and I'm struggling for a way in. Let's find that golden ticket you were raving about."
Nodding in agreement, the elder continued his slow shuffle through the fog. The heavy mud subsided into clearly organized plots of earth, carefully tended green grass beckoning them forward through the dense white cover obscuring everything outside of a fifteen yard radius. The occasional appearance of a large cross and black blocks of limestone and granite with elaborate gold script signaled their arrival at their intended location: a graveyard. An empty security booth loomed in the distance, a lone beacon of light its only distinction in the murk. The two men picked up the pace across the wet grass to avoid being seen, despite the soupiness of the fog making all risk negligible, at best.
"Are you sure about this, old man?" Trey frowned, looking up at the impressive prominence of their location upon reaching its heavy doors. Even with the fog, the place seemed to be emanating a repulsive force, asking them to stay away.
The old man stretched his limbs before taking a key out of the duffel bag slung around his shoulder. "Don't flake on me now. I told you, people need organs and this is the easiest way to get 'em. Unless you grew a pair and want to hijack those med school trucks with donated bodies in them? You can sell a kidney on the black market for fifteen and up."
"And how the hell do you know that?"
"Because I made crazy money back in the day getting rid of bodies that big time bosses like Paddy Doyle needed gone. Prices for organs haven't changed that much, kiddo. Supply is low, demand stays high."
"Yeah, and Paddy Doyle is doing so great last time I read the papers. Time in a federal penitentiary for every white collar crime in the book sounds like a grand ol' time, by the way."
The old man frowned before slapping his son-in-law on the ass. Trey jumped in shock, unfamiliar with the act of being swatted in such a way. Old people always get a pass to be weird, gross, and just perverted because they always have the "I've-seen-things-in-Vietnam" card ready and waiting in their back pocket. Trey could do nothing but shake his head at the man, secretly hoping he'd just drop dead now so he could get the hell out of here. He couldn't be this damn desperate.
"Grow up. The money you make from selling a couple of kidneys, lungs, and what have you will get you and my granddaughter out of Boston and in a city where you can get a better chance to find some real employment. You need this, Trey. That sweet, little girl of yours needs you to show some initiative on this, for once in your life."
"But where are we gonna keep the parts? I can't run out of here with my hands full of some grandma's pancreas."
The old man shrugged his shoulder, causing the duffel bag to shift slightly. "And that's why I brought enough ice packs to keep them cold til' we make it back to the rental. Stop being such a - what does your generation call it? – puppy."
"You mean 'pussy'."
"That's what I said."
Trey raised an eyebrow at the old man's tenacity. If only he could show half that kind of focus to remember to take a piss with the seat up.
"I need an answer, boy. What's it gonna be? Do what you have to do for your family," the elder motioned toward the foreboding steel doors, "or go home, keep drinking PBR on my couch, and bitch like a little girl about the economy and Obama? You going to keep waiting for a chance that everybody else and their grandma is waitin' on?"
"I've been taking classes at community college in short film making. Music videos are really hot right now. And, the professor likes my vision. Says I've got real talent."
"She's from L.A. Everyone is talented or can see talent if they come from that cesspool. Why do you think Vancouver is becoming the new favorite for the film industry? Because the Canadians are still pure and untainted."
"That doesn't even make sense, man."
The elder hobbled forward on weak legs to stick a bony finger in the young man's face. "Trey, you can't be an artist when the bills need to get paid. What's it gonna be?"
With a sigh, Trey shrugged. "Whatever."
"What's with your generation and half-ass replies? Yes or no, two options and you still pick a third…" He scratched his ass unceremoniously before lifting to open the large wooden doors. "Remember, kid, you want to look at the dates before you start popping open the crypts. As recent as possible. We've got enough ice in here to take two, maybe three pounds before the security guy comes by to make his rounds. My guy said they just put a couple of folks in here yesterday evening so look for those first."
"You gonna help with the cutting or am I stuck doing everything?"
"How could I?" He shook his weak, flabby arms in Trey's jaded face. "I'm infirmed. And, besides, you need to put in the time to get the rewards. With my free expertise, you should be happy."
Trey made a small sound of annoyance, more interested in getting the sick job over and done with. He pushed aside the older man to open the doors leading into the mausoleum's inner sanctum. With a grunt and far more effort than he thought should have be necessary, the steel and marble doors released their reluctant hold to keep the outside world out. Despite the well-worn cliché, the doors opened without a creak of protest, silently allowing the heavy fog to crawl into the climate-controlled death house.
"Hey, old man, what's that?" Trey pointed at an unfamiliar mass of darkness lying prone on a large table positioned in the middle of the floor, under a sky light illuminating their actions.
"What are you talking about?" The elder said irritably, pushing the taller man out of the way before walking into the empty hallway lined with plaques marking the dead entombed. As quickly as he pushed Trey aside, however, the older man half-ran/hobbled back out from the dark abyss of the corridor. The mass continued to wait ominously, dead to the world.
"We need to go, Trey. Right now."
Trey frowned. "Why? What's that thing in there? A security alarm? Man…I told you they'd lock this kind of shit up. If you've got the kinda of money to be putting your dad in this type of thing, you've obviously got the money to be springing on something basic like twenty-four hour surveillance."
"Shut-up, boy! If we get caught with that thing in their people are gonna think we did it."
"Did what?" Trey said loudly before lowering his voice. "You ain't tellin' me nothin', man. What's in there?"
The old man sighed before moving to close the heavy doors. "A dead body."
A second of silence passes as the two men try to close the heavy doors together. After much effort the doors reluctantly close.
"Dude, it's a mausoleum. There's gonna be dead bodies, obviously."
"Not like that though. That dead body was just sitting out. The cemetery's sexton wouldn't stand for it. That shouldn't have been there."
As the two men turned around, a bright cone of light shone in their direction. The cone traveled slowly in the dense fog with the difficulty of recognizing large objects but, after a brief second of hesitation, the cone accelerated toward the shocked men.
"Hey, what are you two doing in here? Don't move!"
Trey quickly put his hands up in the air and the older man reluctantly followed suit. His eyes shot angry daggers into the man's bald head.
"I hope some of that social security is gonna pay for our bail, grandpa."
"Shut-up. Just…shut-up and let me handle this," the old man muttered miserably.