Willard Penn looked up at the clock, rubbing his eyes. 3:00 A.M., the halfway point through the dreaded graveyard shift. He snickered; 'graveyard shift' seemed a befitting term he always felt in the 8 years he had worked for the New York City Coroner's Office. Glancing over at the slab he sighed knowing he needed to perform the autopsy on the man lying on the table. Better get to it, he motivated himself.
Willard sighed again as he lifted his 280 pound body off the small desk chair. He lumbered over to the slab and slid his glasses on, grabbing the clipboard from the end of the table to read about this newest victim to the horrors that took place in the city nightly. "Reed Johnson," Willard read out loud. "Reed? Who names their kid 'Reed'?" He laughed. He pulled his glasses down his nose and looked at Mr. Johnson again. "It appears someone thinks you may have been poisoned. Interesting life, there, Reed." saying the name of the victim like an imitation of a British butler. "Looks like I get to remove your liver than, Mr. Johnson. Joy."
Willard never really imagined being a coroner. It's not that he wasn't good at his job. But New York City offered a never ending collection of victims. After 8 years, he felt jaded. There was a toll for working long hours with dead bodies. There was the drinking he never saw as a problem, just a release. But Jennifer sure felt different. His wife used the drinking as an excuse to take their daughter, Sally, back to Ohio a year ago – but he knew it was the job. Who wants to be married to a man who handles dead bodies all day and always came home reeking of formaldehyde?
Setting the clipboard down, Willard walked back over to his desk and pulled a small, dented flask out. He shook the container to see how much was left and then took a long swig. I'll show her drinking he would think to himself whenever he'd drink at work.
Slowly and methodically as always he started cutting in to the late Mr. Reed Johnson. Doing autopsies was still like being in med school. It was like an advanced anatomy class and for all his faults; Willard knew he was good at this. More recently he found himself drinking more when he worked graveyard. He told himself it was the fact that Sally's birthday was coming up. He sincerely missed his daughter.
After getting Mr. Johnson open, he removed the liver and placed it on the scale and recorded the needed information for his report. He removed his gloves and walked back over to his desk. Why was he so tired tonight? He reached over and turned a small radio on. Perhaps music would help wake him up, he thought to himself. And maybe a little more go-go juice would help too, grabbing the flask again and taking another swig.
He stretched and sighed, his routine for the night he figured. Willard let his thoughts wander to his beautiful Sally. She was the one good thing that came out of his miserable marriage to Jennifer. Maybe he should surprise her for her birthday? He took a seat at his desk and started looking for the paper he needed for requesting a toxicology report.
It may have been distraction or the booze or even his thoughts drifting off about Sally, but he neither saw nor heard the rhythmic wheeze of breath come back in to Mr. Johnson.
Mr. Johnson's eyes opened, looking grey and lifeless. His body moved by some force of unknown nature sat up spilling out the remaining insides that Willard had not tinkered with.
Willard heard a sound that was like a wad of wet paper towels hitting the floor. He glanced over his shoulder to see Mr. Johnson now standing and walking toward him. Part of Willard wanted to scream, but the first thought he had was that he had cut open and removed the liver of someone who was alive.
"Mr. Johnson?" Willard spoke in a trembling voice.
The smell of fresh meat must have been overwhelming to the late Reed Johnson as he lurched forward to Willard and bit a chunk of flesh off the fatty part of his neck. Willard realized he should scream now, but the bite sunk into his juggler. Blood was everywhere from the two men causing Willard to slip and fall backwards, banging his head on the corner of the old grey metal desk that must have been there since the 1930's.
Mr. Johnson, moaning and wheezing, bent down for another bite – the fear in Willard causing his heart to race and the blood to pump that much faster. The light in one's eyes that is the result of life flickered out of Willard's, like a candle was being blown out. The creature that was formerly Reed Johnson continued to eat with a ravenous passion. Willard's lifeless body lay on the floor still griping a now blood soaked form requesting the toxicology test.