Seraphim Pt. 1

         Smoggy skies swirled with an intensity equivalent to that of a hurricane and soon began retching fluids onto the mountainous heaps of long forgotten metal, rubber, plastic and other such artificial materials.  The acid rain bit out fragments of the lumbering hoard of garbage until the sky’s belly was emptied.
         The earth watched in silence as the last of the moisture eventually dried up.  Then it turned its back to the sun and life commenced.  Somewhere, in the midst of the valley of refuse, a thick slab of steel, wearing thin from the unusually frequent rains, slid its way across the pile until it created a gap large enough for a man to fit though. 
         A face, detrimentally white, poked out from behind the metal.  His eyes were ringed with black from lack of sleep and were peering suspiciously over the rusted and corroded mountains.  Once outside was deemed safe (or as safe as it could truly be) the face disappeared and a thick soled leather boot emerged, soon followed by the rest of the man’s body.
         Again, he peered around the rusty world.  A sudden gust of wind pulled at his long tattered jacket and scraggly hair.  Annoyed, his hands flew to his scalp and bound the top layer together with a binder from his wrist.  He slipped on a pair of leather gloves slowly, his eyes never ceasing their assessment of the world below.  A smirk formed on his lips as he drew in a deep breath and flew down the mountain side, legs stinging with the effort of maintaining balance as he did so.  When he reached the bottom (which was not truly the bottom, for the true bottom was still more than two meters under) he turned his gaze toward the sky.  Familiar rays of contaminated moonlight rippled across the horizon.  He had heard about a time long ago when the pollution was not of much as a predicament as today, when moonlight was pure and white.
         The electric blue light waved with more ferocity over the wasteland, eerily casting shadows in the smoggy air.  Quickly, he slipped on his compact gas mask.  The air above was much cleaner than any air below it.  Not to say the air below was un-breathable, for it was definitely possible… if an early funeral was not minded.  The gasses, painted luminous blue in the moonlight, wound around his ankles like an overly affectionate cat, the tail swirling up the many silver buckles of his knee-high boots. 
He strode away quickly, causing the fog to leap away from his feet.  His eyes were always alert and wandering, though he knew exactly where he was going.  A rotting billboard stuck halfway out of the garbage as if it had been dropped from an enormous height: “Zodiac Inc., Your supply of antibiotics and more!”                     
“Bullshit,” he scoffed as he passed the advertisement.
         The kit that was strapped against his chest jingled as he took flight toward a rusty pile with a section cleared away enough to reveal a door just beginning its process of corrosion.
         He pressed himself against the exposed door and lifted the spiny brass handle, sharp from its process of decomposition.  Inch by inch, the door creaked open and the metallic, sour smell of rot escaped the building.  He bit his tongue to stop his gag reflex from working and stepped inside.
         Shafts of light streamed through grungy windows hidden somewhere along the top of the building, shining down on a line of stacked bodies stretching across the room.  They were stacked in rows, parallel to each other: the first tier was that of coffins, the next those merely wrapped in silken fabrics and the top layer was the bodies that had been tossed onto the building almost carelessly, hastily even.
         One could use the mound of dead as a timeline with those in coffins as being dead before the pandemic, the wrapped bodies as from the period of the beginning confusions and the top layer, the most recent layer, the panic bodies.  The bodies dumped because of a lack of cemetery room.
         With nimble hands he unclipped his kit from his chest, knelt in a section of the floor un-littered with bodies and smoothed the kit out on the ground.  He ran his hand over the aged leather until it closed around a sheathed scalpel.  Gracefully, gracefully enough to wonder just how many times he had preformed this particular operation, he stood and climbed the pyramid of coffins until he reached the top of the pile and selected the first pale arm he caught sight of.
         He wound his hands around the arm and pulled the body free of its prison.
         Typically he refrained from looking onto the faces of the dead, but the name clinging to the man’s breast caught his eye.  Don Impir, sewn in white, looping cursive letters on the blue-gray jacket that clung around the man’s breast as if refusing to die with the body of this man.  He lifted the mask for a moment, feeling the worn plastic sticking to his perspiring skin.
         “Sorry, Don,” he muttered, unbuttoning Don’s loose cotton shirt with one hand, biting down on the protective sheath to remove it, and letting the tip of the naked scalpel sink into Impir’s flesh.  The mask was reunited with his face before he preformed the rest of his task.
         There were two reasons he chose bodies from the tip tier.  One, they were most likely abandoned so still contained all organs unlike those in the coffins who had been embalmed and prepared for a funeral (on a good day he could get a body that was still fresh and pump out the blood, embalmment ruined those good days for him).  And two, he knew none of the bodies were infected because the bodies of the deceased infected were immediately claimed by the government and incinerated.  The deceased uninfected, however, were brought here, to abandon funeral homes, half buried in filth to rest in peace for all eternity.
         His murky eyes wandered the four corners of the room then looped around the muddled horizon of the dead.  By now, after only four years of illegal organ thievery (informally known as “organ pinching”) he found that he could scrape out hearts, kidneys, livers, or lungs with the precision of a skilled surgeon.  Yes, by now he could remove organs in his sleep.
         Blood oozed down the chest cavity, coagulating since the moment Don had died of a blow to the head.  In a flash, the scalpel ripped into the flesh, creating a box-like opening.  He flipped the cut tissue to the side as he rummaged for vital organs that he could “pinch”.  Don’s heart was in well enough condition but his liver had gone through hell. 
         “Must have been a drinker,” he sniffed, disappointed by the loss of another organ.  Hastily, he wiped the surgical utensils down on Don’s shirt and flipped the body onto its stomach so that the Morgue Men would not suspect a grave robber in their so called “cemetery”.  Luckily for him, the M.M. wouldn’t dare be in the burial building for long; the scent alone was enough to drive a man insane.
         “One more,” he declared to himself as he again scaled the coffins and pulled down another body.  Unfortunately the body had belonged to a heavy, muscular man whose weight carried them both tumbling to the ground before he could regain his balance.  The sound of a cracking bone filled the room, amplified by both the enclosed space and continual silence.  He cussed to himself loudly, quickly checking himself for injuries.  After deeming himself alright, he grumbled and started toward body-builder’s corpse, its shoulder bent at an awkward angle from the break. 
“Finally!” he sighed, “A fresh one.”  He could feel the heat, still pulsing off the body as he geared up the needle and prodded the man’s flesh.  Finding a vein under
body-builder’s muscle mass seemed to be an impossible task, so he simply shrugged and aimed the needle at his victim’s neck, hoping to hit the jugular.
         As the blood trickled into the bag connected to the needle, he stacked up the plastic containers containing the harvested organs and set them gently in the worn green pack he had brought with him.  By the time he had finished packing up, the blood began to barely seep into the bag.  Grimacing, he scooted as close as he could to the body, crossing one hand over the other and holding them over the corps’s sternum.  Chest compressions were his least favorite part; something about a survival tactic used to rob the dead just didn’t seem right to him.
         “Hah,” he thought bitterly, “remember not to do rescue breaths.”
         He brought his hands down and blood spewed into the bag with a tiny squelching noise.  The compressions continued until the bag was as full as he could manage.  Then, after quickly sealing the blood bag, he laid it in the pack gently and dragged the second body to the corner, tucking it behind a coffin.  It could easily be mistaken for a body that had simply have fallen from the top of the pyramid.  Once he had collected his treasures he hurried to the door and yanked on the rusty handle.  Though he had his mask on, he could still smell the putrefying bodies on his way out as he slammed the door shut.           The moonlight waved in fervent greeting and the smog tried to envelope him, but he bowed his head in unresponsive silence and made his way home.  Piles of ancient plasma screens, long ruined from the rains, sat on either side of his path along with hills of other office and kitchen appliances.  Already trampled fragments of plastic and glass crunched beneath his feet though whole windows of buildings could sometimes be spotted along the mountain faces, despite the fact that oxidation had camouflaged them to match their surroundings.  The jungle of waste had become one with the city.  Or had the city become one with the jungle of waste?
         A howl sounded in the distance, piercing though the silent smog.  He spun around toward the noise, eyes dancing frantically around his surroundings.  The sound was distant but it was only the unwise who took the howling of the Cerberus lightly.  He fled as quickly as his legs would allow him.
         The clouds engulfed the moon, like a patient swallowing a small blue pill.  The rain began again just as he reached his safe haven.  He pulled the steel sheet aside and ducked into the dark abyss, shoving the slab back into place.  Darkness swallowed what little light that was left until he flicked the switch on a small, crank powered flashlight.  The light spilled over the ground and chased the darkness into the corners where it hid until the light pointed away again.  He removed his mask with one hand and timidly aimed the light into the distance, revealing a long stone walled tunnel resembling some ancient tunnel from the Dark Ages.  Most would find it unnerving to have a front entrance buried below several feet of garbage, but to him it was home.   
         Clammy stone walls stretched together to form an arched hallway, with pillars carved in jagged designs and tagged long ago with graffiti while large wooden double doors stood clandestine at the end.  His footsteps whispered loudly as he whisked over to the doors and pried them apart.
         Behind the doors, an ancient musty smell loomed in the air.  A light burst to life from a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, tear drop crystals reflected and bent the light around the room.  He sighed heavily, dropping his mask on an antique wooden desk beside the double doors.
         His home was not much more than a giant double tiered room.  A single staircase let to the second floor, which looped around the circumference of the room, lined by a single red-stained banister.  Bookshelves hugged all the wall space, with the exception of the back walls where, on the bottom floor, a black leather couch sat, encircled by matching arm chairs with an oversized coffee table dotting the center.  The bookshelves on the top floor stood like dominoes with one extra shelf standing perpendicular in the middle of each pair to prevent any incidents involving a falling line of shelves.
         On the bottom floor tables were set up against one wall.  Two ancient refrigerators squatted beside each other, while a microwave oven sat on the corner of a cracking plastic table yards away from the far refrigerator.  He glided over to the second refrigerator, unhooking his arm from the green pack and yanking the door open.  An array of crimson orbs dominated the top shelf like racks of bloody Christmas ornaments while the bottom shelf was packed full with plastic containers of various sizes.
         Once the blood bag and organ containers were safely planted, he slammed the door shut and moved to the other side of the room to launder his kit and clothing.  He stripped the contents from his kit and tossed them in a wide plastic bin then undressed and threw his clothing in to a larger bin.  After pumping a clear, water-like liquid into another square shallow bin, he dipped a square of cloth in and scrubbed his body down then re-dressed. Using the same water-like substance, he scoured his surgical utensils and clothing.  He hung his wet clothing on a short line, fastened between two bookshelves, to dry.  Drops of the liquid pattered against the stone floor, a mesmerizing drone in the silence of solitude.
         He trudged toward the back wall and draped himself across the couch.  For a few, brief minutes he lay still, concentrating on his breathing and the slow trickle from his drying clothes, but the mirror from the other side of the room caught his attention and he was back on his feet again.
         The mirror he had found buried in the mountains of refuse last week, and then broken a week later.  He still hadn’t taken it down.  His pale reflection stared back at him in thousands of tiny fragments.  The largest remaining portion of the mirror reflected his chest and the many items of jewelry dangling from his neck; the first was a small, silver key no bigger than his pinky nail, with a looping band and a small red gem embedded deep within the body.  Then came a green, organic woven material, a circular locket, a pewter serpent, a silver chain and, lastly, his dog tags.
         Seraphim.
         No last name.  He saw no reason to include it for he, himself never used one.
         Seraphim.
         In fact, he saw no reason for his first name either.  He was Nobody, Nothing, Nameless.  He was alone.  He would be alone for a very long while.
         And he didn’t care.  Not anymore.  That scorching pain had dulled to a constant ache.
         He bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut.  He didn’t want to look at the array of artwork dripping from his neck.  He didn’t want to see it.
         Like a gunshot, a metallic shattering sound filled the air.  He opened his eyes; the mirror was even more shattered then before, now lined with more spider web like streaks.  His knuckles dripped blood to the floor where shards glistened and threw light back at him in disapproval.  Soon he found himself back on the couch, his eyelids drooping until they would not remain open.
         “Seraphim?”
         “Seraphim, wake up!”
         “Daddy?”
         Seraphim’s body jolted upright and his eyes snapped open; already racing around the room, looking for… it didn’t matter.  It was a dream.  Just a dream.
         He slumped back down, wiping the sweat from his neck with the back of his hand.  His hand.  He had forgotten to bandage the cut from the mirror.  The thought of breaking the mirror seemed so casual to him now that it had happened twice.
         Groggily, he sauntered over to the “medical bookshelf” where he stored rows of vaccinations, antibacterial sprays and gels, heaps of freeze packed gauze, medical tapes, and other miscellaneous items.  He tore the plastic off of the gauze with his teeth and wound the material snugly around his hand.  As he finished taping the gauze down, he sighed and planned for his week.  Tomorrow evening he planned a scavenger day for a new hack saw or wash bin; though the surface of the junkyard was stained and corroded, the guts remained intact, if one was patient enough to take a scalpel to its skin and do a little digging.
         Seraphim eyed the refrigerator and leaned back to pull the door free.  He frowned in disappointment at the dwindling supply of organs.  Mr. Ben would expect at least as much as last month.  Today, he decided, would be dedicated to organ pinching.  Again.
         The couch beckoned him along with his aching joints and already closing eyes while the gas mask stared at him hopefully from the desk beside the doors.  How long had he napped for?  He tried to calculate the hours in his head without looking at his watch.  Three hours?  Maybe less.  Shaking the weariness from his head, he strapped the kit tightly across his chest, slipped a knife into his belt in case of any more run-ins with the Cerberus, and snatched up the mask as he exited, flicking the light switch off before he slammed the doors shut.
         The air seemed less stale already, less muggy even.  Yet the fog below had been reduced to a measly knee-high tide and the skies, too, seemed clarified, allowing the moonlight to be just a little more pure and a little less unnatural blue.  He inhaled, savoring the lack of smog and after he had his fill of the cleaner-than-usual air, Seraphim slipped his mask on and waded through the fog.
         Piles of decaying apparatus flew past him as he made his way to the tomb, just as familiar to him as a busy street corner or a small town’s convenience store would be to anyone else.  The door peeked at him through the pile of rubbish, almost sardonically welcoming him in to its belly, full of stink and death and hopelessness.  This time the entry to the mausoleum opened more easily, the hinges barely squeaked in protest as he threw his shoulder against the rusted panel out of habit.  He braced himself for the overpowering, sour stench of death and decay before entering.  After a minute of scrutiny, he concluded the presence of a priest only four or five hours ago, holy water littered the floor, specks of dust contaminated the purity and rose to the tops of the droplets.  The M.M. must have oiled the door, he decided.
         Seraphim had been careful to avoid any run-ins with the men of the Zodiac military or any Father-what’s-his-faces.  He was positive that the Fathers would be most displeased to learn of Seraphim’s rather imaginative survival tactics.  The thought was short lived as he trampled the contaminated droplets and clambered up the coffins.
         Another batch had arrived shortly before the priest; the top tier had grown another layer.  An arm with long, slender fingers dangled from the top of the pile.  He dragged the body until it spilled over the edge, landing almost poetically poised on the ground.  Again, the body caught Seraphim’s attention as he skidded down the side of the mountain of corpses.  Not because this one had a name to put a face with, but because of the graceful features of his victim’s face.  She had a pale, smooth complexion with dark eyelids and long, barbed lashes.  Hair, deep ebony, swirled about her face and cascaded across her chest and down to her stomach.  She looked just like….
         He shook his head as if it would toss away the thought then stared down at her ashen lips, feeling regretful over her death.  A pallid dress framed her body and swooped down to her knees where it was met with…boots? 
He blinked in surprise, peering down at his own boots, identical to the ones covering his victim’s feet.  Only two organizations supplied these particular boots: the Zodiac army, and Zodiac Inc. workers.  Which was she?
         “Who the hell are you?” he muttered.  But it didn’t matter, she was already dead.
         Blocking all emotions from his mind, Seraphim unclipped his kit and flattened it to the floor, smoothing it over with his palm.  He selected a syringe and blood bag then picked up the woman’s limp arm.  Frail emerald veins crawled up her arm and spider-webbed across her wrists.  Sighing, he took the needle and plunged it through the thin veil of skin.  Still kneeling, Seraphim attempted to drive his focus from the woman by scanning the pile for a new victim.  Just as he balanced himself to stand, he felt something close around his wrist and pull.
         A scream of agony bounced off of the walls in an endless echo.  It took Seraphim one more second to realize that both noise and grip came from the woman he had selected from the mound of corpses.  Another moment later he realized that the blood was spurting into the blood bag, a sure sign of a still beating heart.  Her grip gave away, leaving Seraphim with verdant, finger shaped bruises along his wrist.  He darted away as the woman’s back arched and collapsed as she withered on the floor, never ceasing her frightening cry.
         For a brief moment her body stilled.
Then her eyes shot open as she gulped for clean air.  Her back arched and her arms slapped at the floor while her legs kicked and twitched, stomping against some invisible foe.  Incoherent words poured from her mouth in a scream as she twisted and jerked and lashed on the floor.
Seraphim stared at the woman in shock, watching as she stilled once more.  An idea hit him as her chest heaved; she couldn’t breathe.
He stripped the mask from his face and pressed it against her delicate features, holding his own breath in the meantime.  When the woman’s breathing became noticeably regulated, he slammed the mask back against his face and inhaled, “Who are you?” he gasped between gulps of air.
She parted her eyelids slowly, her neck lolled to one side so that she was facing him, “I think I died,” she rasped.