Gary A. Braunbeck - Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys

It took us over half an hour to move the tracks, and even then it was a tight squeeze, but somehow we managed. We lifted Miss Driscoll’s body from the bed (she didn’t weigh very much, I could have done it alone), put her inside the bag, and zipped it closed. There was a cold finality in that sound that, for a moment, put me back inside the Leonard house. Christ, I didn’t want to be here. Dobbs took the lead. We’d gotten the gurney almost all the way to the foyer when one of the wheels on his end locked up. “Son-of-a…hold on a second, will you?” “Sure thing.” I let go of my end, stood there for a moment, and then noticed something. “Hey, Fred, do you have the clipboard?” “No,” he said from somewhere below the gurney. “What’d we do, leave it in the bedroom?” “Looks like.”

His head came around the far right wheel leg. “ Well? ”

I looked at him.

He looked back at me, then sighed. “Hey, here’s a question—when you were going to school, did you ride there on a long bus or the short one?”

“So you’re saying I should go back and get it.”

“Whatta you think?”

“I think I’ll go back and get it.”

His head disappeared behind the gurney leg once more. “I’m so proud right now.”

Back in the bedroom, I found the clipboard lying on the floor in front of the bedside table. I retrieved it and started making my way out of the room when I gave into a sudden impulse, turned back, and removed one of the numerous star-covered maps from the wall. Folding it up and slipping it into one of my back pockets, I went back to help Dobbs move the gurney out into the foyer. “You doing okay?” he asked once we were back in the hall. “I guess.” Dobbs pulled the door to 716 closed, checking to make sure it locked behind him, then said, “You look kinda upset to me.”

“This hasn’t been the best morning. Could we just go , please?”

We began moving the gurney toward the end of the hall. Dobbs asked, “So…think you’re gonna have the stomach for this?”

“I haven’t urped on your shoes yet, have I?”

“Just checking. Usually with CS helpers, this is about the time most of them decide they’d rather risk roadside trash pickup, dishwashing, or jail. But all things considered, you held your own real good here this morning.”

“Thanks.” And I meant it. Dobbs didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who was in the habit of handing out compliments like business cards at a convention, so knowing that I’d earned his seal of approval actually made me feel kind of proud of myself.

“I have decided,” said Dobbs, “that you aren’t okay, that you’re just trying to put up a good front for me. I have decided that this kind of stiff-upper-lip behavior deserves rewarding. I have decided that you need cheering up.”

“Oh, you have, have you?”

“Yes, and since I’m in charge, you’re getting cheered up. Besides, I’m hungry.”

We were just turning the corner at the end of the hall when I chanced a look back at Miss Driscoll’s apartment and saw a bulky shadow closing the door from inside. A second later, the deadbolt was engaged. I started to say something to Dobbs, then changed my mind; after all, we didn’t see anything suspicious, did we?

3

We headed for a nearby McDonald’s. Since Dobbs wanted to avoid the crowd inside (and the thought of leaving Miss Driscoll’s body unattended seemed—to me, anyway—creepier than our eating our lunch while sitting in the wagon with it), we placed our orders at the drive-thru.

The people in the cars in front of and behind us kept looking at the wagon and trying to look like they weren’t looking. Hard to miss a big-ass white wagon with the word CORONERwritten across the back and sides (as well as backwards across the front).

Because Dobbs was picky about how his food was to be prepared (so it was going to take a few extra minutes), we were asked to pull out of line and go wait in one of the parking spaces designated Drive-Thru Customers Only.

So we sat there while the rest of the customers took their bags of food and kept looking over.

Two other cars were asked to move out of line and park in our area, which they did, one on either side of us. It was a hot day and everyone—including Dobbs and me—had our windows rolled down.

There are two windows in the rear doors of the wagon, and one on either side toward the back. These side windows come equipped with blinds that can be lowered so as to keep the body from view of passing drivers.

Dobbs had forgotten to lower the side blinds, so the cars parked on either side of us had a clear, unobstructed view of the bagged body.

The man and little girl in the car on Dobbs’ side looked about half sick.

The young woman in the car on my side sat with her hands on the steering wheel, staring straight out at the patch of weeds beyond the parking lot. Dobbs finally turned to face the man and little girl on his side. He raised his hand and gave a short wave. “Hi’ya.” “Hey,” said the little girl. “Elizabeth,” said her father, “don’t bother the…nice man.” “Oh, she ain’t botherin’ me,” Dobbs replied. “We’re just waiting on our order.” “Me, too,” said the little girl. Then: “Is that a dead person back there?” “Sure is.” “What’cha doin’ with them?” “Just making a delivery.” The man turned ashen, but the woman sitting in the car on my side was red-faced. The little girl asked, “Where you taking the body?” Dobbs smiled. “That’s a secret.” The little girl looked from Dobbs to the body, then at the golden arches.

The woman in the car next to me made a sound, and I looked over to see her lowering her head, her lips pressed tightly together but quivering; she was trying so hard not to laugh.

About this time, a young woman looking shapely and cute in her Mickey-D’s uniform came out with our order, handing it through the window to Dobbs. “Here’s your order, sir. Thank you for your patience.”

“No problem,” said Dobbs. Then: “So, which door in the back do we go to?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” She looked at him for a moment, then rolled her eyes and sighed. “Oh, no, not you again…”

Dobbs started the engine. “Yes, me again. Now, which door? We go through this every time, and I, for one, am getting bored with this little innocent routine you insist on playing. This stuff won’t stay fresh for long, not in this weather.”

The woman in the car next to me looked like she might burst a vein in her head if she held her laughter in much longer.

“Never mind,” said Dobbs to the Mickey-D’s crewperson. “I understand, all these witnesses and everything.” He winked at her. “We’ll find it.”

The young woman slunk back inside, shaking her head and muttering.

Dobbs pulled his Quarter Pounder out of the bag, unwrapped it, lifted the top part of the bun to check it, and then shrieked. Everyone else—including me—jumped at the sound.

“Oh, my God!” said Dobbs. “It’s true. God help us all, it’s true! ”

He backed out then, shouting, “Soylent Green is people! Soylent Green is people! Soylent Green is peeeeeeeeeeeeeeople!”

The man in the other car gripped the steering wheel and placed his forehead against the backs of his hands. His daughter was jumping up and down, shouting “ Soylent Green is people!” The woman in the farthest car was howling with laughter, and customers inside were lining the windows, staring.

Dobbs stopped at the exit, opened his door, and—brandishing his Quarter Pounder like it was the Olympic torch—stood up on the running board: “I can’t take it anymore! I warn you all—fear the Mystery Meat! Fear it! Fear it! For the love of all that’s good and decent, FEAR IT!” Then he got back inside the wagon and drove away as if nothing had happened.