“Oh,what in the Christly fuck?” Chad cried, backing up, and Mark foundhimself doing the same.
“Thefuck was that?” Mark whispered
“That—That—”
“That’snot a fucking dead kid!”
“That’snot a fucking person!”
Mark’sjaw was stretching wide beneath his mask, which threatened to slip down off thebridge of his nose as he shook his head. “So— What? Did Constance pull a fastone on us or something?”
“Aten grand fast one?”
Mark’seyes widened. “Seriously?”
“Yes,”Chad spat, then pointed at the coffin. “But that… I mean, who the hellwould want to trip the ghost on that?”
“Okay,okay. Hold on.” Mark turned away, taking a deep breath and almost pressing hishand to his head before remembering where it had just been. “So…whatever thatis, that’s what she wants us to work with. Assuming it does work,and the spores do take… Well, who the hell would want…?” He shook hishead, feeling an itch in his shoulder erupt into a full-body shiver.
“Gotme, man. I mean, —”
“No!”Mark shook his head. “Seriously?”
Chadshrugged. “You want to make the other five or what?”
Marklooked back at the coffin, then sighed heavily. “Alright, alright. Let’s giveit a shot. Worse comes to worst—”
…Iwould be happy to provide a different resource…
Marksuppressed another shiver.
Chadstepped forward and tugged the lid up and threw it against the wall, and Markslowly moved over and gave the thing in the coffin a good, long look.
Tosay that time and the elements had been kind to the body was a bit of anunderstatement; but then, perhaps they had taken pity upon the deformed entityinside the coffin—pity, or fearful avoidance. The jumble of too-too-manytwisted limbs reminded Mark of gnarled tree roots and overgrown vines, yet werepunctuated with angled joints—unmistakably limbs. The shrunken skin wasa pale brownish-grey, almost moist-looking. Each limb ended inuneven appendages; some were fully-formed fingers, and others were little morethan a cluster of lumps. Between what may or may not have been a couple oflegs, a dark, shrunken mass offered no suggestion of a sex. And the head…
Marklooked away, knowing full well that that twisted, forever-silenced scream wouldnever leave his mind in even the most restful slumbers. He turned to Chad, butall they could do was stare at each other.
Noamount of waiting could prepare them for what they had to do next. They movedthe tank beside the table and reached inside the coffin. Mark wriggled hisfingers beneath a few of the more heavily-layered groups of limbs, and Chad itstiny shoulders. Chad counted to three, and they gingerly pulled it up and out.
Thebody was surprisingly light, no more than fifty pounds; it took all of Mark’sresolve to avoid gagging as he felt the squishy give of thing’simpossibly-spongy flesh in his gloved hands. They carefully maneuvered the bodyabove the rim of the coffin and over the tank, and began lowering it in—
“FUCK!”Chad shrieked, dropping his end of the body. Cursing, Mark followed suit, andit fell into the tank, landing with a sickening cacophony of thumps.
“Whatthe fuck was that?” Mark snapped.
“Itfucking moved!”
“What?”
“I swear to God, man, the fuckingthing moved a couple of its arms!”
“Thatwas probably me holding it, jerk!”
“Ifucking saw it, man!”
Mark’sjaw worked, but he looked down at the thing in the tank. “Whatever,” he saidweakly. “Let’s— just get it sealed and ready.”
Andthen get some fucking questions ready for Mrs. Constance.
* * *
Afterthey sealed the tank, they brought it over to the stairwell and began hoistingthe cart up on sheets of plywood. Once it was upstairs, Mark slammed thebasement door shut. They’d not bothered to do anything with the coffin; it wastheir unspoken agreement to leave that for the next day.
Wheelingthe coffin into the converted living room of the old house, Mark couldn’t helpbut appreciate—even find comfort in—all the other tanks that they passed. Somuch routine, so much normalcy, so much sanity, lay in each tank. Theywere moving through the central aisle of what they called the Garden.
Markand Chad turned the corner and moved to the empty row of tables on the farwall. They stopped at the far end, then stooped to grab either end of the tank,grateful to have a quarter of an inch of acrylic between them and the thinginside as they moved it onto a table.
WhileChad went to fetch an extension cord, Mark turned to the refrigerator—thenstopped and looked quickly back at the tank.
Itdidn’t move, he toldhimself, staring a snarl of tangled limbs for a long, breathless moment. Notthen, and not now.
Ignoringa chill, Mark stepped to the other side of the room and opened therefrigerator. Inside, bottles of water crowded the top shelf, and beneath, rowsof small, foil-sealed containers filled the remaining shelves beneath. He tookan open bottle and one of the containers back to the tank, then removed a smallcork that crowned a hollow pin in the middle of a socket on the top of thetank.
Chadreturned then, carrying an extension cord. Plugging it in, Mark reached for aswitch on the top of the tank cover, and bright lights flicked on. Ignoringwhat they illuminated, he turned on the vents, then uncapped the water andpoured some into a small tube. Upending the foil-topped container, he pushed itonto the pin, hearing it puncture the foil as he screwed the container’s mouthinto the socket.
“Letthere be…something,” Chad muttered. Mark waited to make sure that theaeration process began, and when a fine, faint fog of greenish-grey began topuff into the tank, they walked away.
Inthe nearest row of tanks, the most recent acquisition had finally begun totake. It had been a bit of an older specimen, and had taken nearly a week togrow, but yesterday, the incomplete stack of shins, femurs, and vertebra hadfinally sprouted a grey coating. Earlier that morning, a few buttons had begunto form. Chad had been especially curious as to what results it would yield;the bones had once belonged to a man whose house still sometimes smelled of thefire that
