Page 73 of Vipers & Roses

“I’m never ready,” which is the answer I always give to this question. Nothing can prepare you for the gory, vomit-inducing mess that greets you when you get down there, but it’s the smell—it’s always the smell that gets to us the most—the stench that lingers even hours after we’ve left the scene.

Z pushes the door open, and that distinctive metallic scent meets our nostrils, and my stomach turns. Swallowing down rising acid vomit, I follow Z down the stairs, where she reaches for the string that dangles from the light and flicks the basement light on.

“It’s not so bad,” she states positively as she steps down the wooden stairs, and my view of our job ahead becomes clear. And she’s right, it’s not as bad as other times. The wall and floor are splattered in blood, and there’s a scarlet drag mark from a body being pulled along. And that’s it.

“We should have this finished in no time,” I add to her upbeat optimism, noticing Smiler’s signature, a smiley face drawn in the drag mark on the floor—an interesting sense of humor for someone who bludgeons people to death.

We find a clean corner and put on our PPE gear, covering ourselves head to toe in protective skin. Then, I pour disinfectant into the bucket and head back upstairs to fill it with water. I can hear the muffled sound of my phone ringing in my bag, but I’m too busy to answer it.

I feel my way in the dark down the hall of shedding floral wallpaper to the kitchen, place the bucket in the sink, and feel for the faucet. Headlights of a vehicle outside stream into the kitchen, and I instinctively know that it’s one of Smiler’s lackeys checking on us as he did when we arrived.

Once the bucket is filled with water, I carry it back down into the basement, and we begin our arduous task of scrubbing, cleaning, and mopping away every spot of DNA.

My phone beeps twice while we’re working, but I ignore it because I don’t want to touch it with unclean gloves. This strangely therapeutic work leaves me with a sense of satisfaction afterward. The scarlet color vanishes before our eyes with every stroke of the mop or lash of the scrubbing brushes, and the sickly aroma disperses, drowned in disinfectant.

We completed the job faster than usual, and Z glanced at me, disappointed. “Don’t expect to be paid the same as usual.”

“That’s fine,” I say, eager to leave because this house creeps me out—not just because of the deaths that occur here but also because of the constant creaky sounds of old foundations and pipes.

We strip our PPE gear off at the top of the basement steps before Z pulls the light cord, and we’re steeped in darkness again. Feeling our way following the moon's dim light, we enter the kitchen and exit the house quickly, locking the door behind us.

“We’ve got company,” Z murmurs, and I know she means the black SUV parked across the road. They always arrive as we leave to scrutinize our work. Tonight is unusual, though, as they were here before we arrived and seemed to stay the entire time—watching. Waiting.

I swallow over a lump in my throat, thinking about the single red rose resting on the kitchen table. I wonder what message they’re trying to convey or if it’s a message at all.

We throw our supplies into the van, slide the door shut, and quickly climb inside the cab. My heart refuses to rest until we’re clear of this suburb and my entire body has been scrubbed clean, removing every lingering filthy sensation.

It isn’t until we drive by the lake again that the atmosphere lightens, and Z mutters about the latest Tarantino movie and the word ‘genius’ thrown about several times. Weirdly, this is when I remember that my phone beeped several and I reach into my bag to hunt for it.

There are two text messages and a voicemail from Cormac asking me to call him ASAP, and I wonder if this has something to do with his father asking me to have dinner. It’s just after 1 PM, and the last message came through after midnight, so he must be angry about it if he’s messaging me in the middle of the night. Perhaps a line has been crossed with his father.

I decide not to reply until I’m alone and back in my apartment, fearing an argument will break out and I’ll be forced to apologize. I’d rather save Z the earful of our drama and me succumbing to the charms of a handsome man.

“You know you can quit any time,” Z says out of the blue. I’d understand. I mean, I don’t want you to, but I’d understand.”

“I don’t want to quit,” I tell her, wondering where this is coming from. “Well, honestly, I’d prefer a job just as well-paid doing something that didn’t involve cleaning up dead peoples’ blood and guts, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Okay,” she sighs as she turns down my street. “I believe you. You seem a little sullen tonight. That’s all.”

I chuckle. “I wasn’t thinking about that tonight. My mind is elsewhere on class, assignments-”

“Men?” she butts in.

“Yeah, some of my head space contains men,” I admit, although not necessarily men I’m attracted to since a large percentage of my head space contains The Four.

She pulls up outside my apartment building, and I open the door and slide out of the passenger seat, planting my feet firmly on the ground. “Thanks, Z,” I say, trying to sound upbeat, but my tone remains solemn and flat.

“No problem,” she replies, just as gloomy as me. “Have a good night.”

I run across the road, use my swipe card to open the building’s glass doors into the foyer, then step inside the elevator. A lone woman is never safe, even in a building with good security, so I feel for the hardness of Til for comfort.

Once inside my apartment and my doors locked on the chain, I sit on the edge of the bed and reply to Cormac’s message.

Me: Hey. What’s up?

33

Cormac called several minutes after I sent the message while turning on the bathroom shower water.

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