She wondered if smells were something that you could getused to. She hoped so, as she was currently immobilized by the nauseating smellof the man's decaying corpse. Her eyes teared up, and it took every ounce ofstrength to keep from vomiting. She didn't want to know what would happen ifone of the dead who were as ripe as the gentleman at the desk got close enoughto make her want to be sick. She wondered if she would be able to fight, orwould she just fall to her knees and throw up while the dead fell upon herdevouring her?
The brownish splatters on the window told her everythingshe needed to know. Here was a man who had taken the easy way out.
She removed her hand from her face and was able to say,"Grab the..." before she deposited her breakfast in the dead man'strash can. "Grab the gun," she spat at Joan, before another dry heavedrove her to her knees.
She watched from the corner of her eye as Joan triedunsuccessfully to pull the gun out of the man's hands. The dead, swollenfingers wouldn't budge, and Joan put more effort into pulling the gun free. Shestruggled for a few seconds and then backed away. "I can't," shesaid.
Clara couldn't believe her. "You're a doctor. Didn'tyou have to deal with shit like this all the time?"
"No, I never had to pull a gun out of a dead man'shands. Most of my patients weren't rotting with the backs of their heads blownoff."
Clara wiped a hand across her mouth and said, "Fine.I'll do it." She got to her feet, feeling a bit shaky. She tried to tuckher mind away, to go somewhere where she wasn't aware of what she was doing.She wanted to go to that place where people go when they drive to work in themorning, that place where you're still capable of doing what needs to be done,but you don't actually remember it. Next thing you know, you're in a parkinglot, and you have no idea how you made it from point A to point B, but somehowyou did.
It didn't work though. If anything, trying to becomeunaware made her more aware, and every detail of the office jumped out at her.The smell of the dead man, the taste of the rot in her mouth, the sickly brownstains, the buzz of flies and the maggots swimming through the man's remains.She focused on it all, but the most horrifying thing to her was the coldness ofthe man's hand as she tried to pry the handgun away from him.
His hand was locked in place. There was no way to freethe handgun from him without breaking his fingers, so that's what she did. Shepulled the telephone handset from its cradle and bashed the man's hand,gritting her teeth, but keeping her lips tightly pursed should any gore orfilth fly at her face. Ten times, maybe more, she brought the telephone down onthe man's hand, groaning inwardly at the violence that she was doing to thecorpse. Would he have killed himself if he knew that someone was going to comealong and begin bashing on his hand with a telephone handset? Probably.Eventually, after several crunching sounds, she was able to unlace the man'scold, clammy fingers from the handgun. She held the barrel pinched between twofingers like a mother picking up her child's dirty, smelly gym sock.
"You have any more of that hand sanitizer onyou?" she asked Joan.
"Always," she said as she set her backpack onthe ground and rummaged through it for the small plastic bottle. Clara set thegun on the table and flicked the safety on. Then she held out her hands toJoan, who tipped the bottle upside down and squeezed until a drop ofalcohol-smelling sanitizer hit her hands. Clara rubbed her hands vigorously,and then held them up to her face, breathing in the alcohol sent. At thatmoment, she thought it was the greatest thing that she had ever smelled.
Joan dumped some sanitizer on the handgun, and theyrubbed it around the handle, hoping to kill off any corpse germs.
"You want to go through the drawers?" Claraasked.
"I just want to get out of here," she said.
"That makes two of us."
They left the room, the gun in their possession, andclosed the door behind them. In the main room, they sat on the ground andwatched the others search through desks. Without speaking to each other, theyboth knew that they were done scavenging for the day.
The wind whistled into the office through the brokenwindow, bringing with it a refreshing breeze despite the smell of smoke and decaythat hung in the air. To Clara, the air was revitalizing compared to what shehad been breathing in the office of the dead man. Then a thought hit her. Whatif the man had smokes? A man high-strung enough to own a gun and put a bulletin his head... well, he had to have a few other vices as well, right? She woulddo anything for a cigarette. She had run out a week ago. She was no longeraddicted. The first few days in the movie theater had been fine until she ranout of reasons to go up on the roof. Her cigarettes had run out, and then eachday had seemed like a torture session of longings and cravings.
Those days were gone, but hey, it never hurt to check itout. Clara stood up and moved towards the office. Joan grabbed her arm andasked, "Where are you going?"
"I'm just going to check something out." Joanhad a concerned look on her face, but she released her, and Clara walked overto the office. She took a deep breath, and then stepped back inside. She didn'tthrow up
