text: Out of the Cave (CW: Gore, Psychological Horror) He watched as his farmhands dragged the body in by the wrists, bound, coursing a thick line through the mud. Evening’s end smouldered through a skylight streaked with soot, casting the men in claret-dark patches. They slumped the body against the gate of a pigsty. The pathologist kept the hood over the corpse’s head. Better this way, for matters of instruction and practice. It was just another body. He ran his knife back and forth against a whetstone, weighing meaning and matter idly. He called on his farmhands to bring two pails, one with fresh water, the other empty. A shallow, kidney-shaped dish for his finer instruments, a bulkier, ox-hide case for the larger. He placed the knife upon a dampened towel near the body. A viewing lantern came forward, fire licking its insides, the light flowering out, insectile wisps arcing into the dark beyond. Poor conditions, poor environs. He was used to the latter, less so the former. No time to wait for an improvement. The pathologist pulled on black gloves and a mask. He angled the light towards the neck and chest and unbuttoned the blood-sodden shirt, exposing a frail lattice of ribs. The lip of the empty bucket touched the side of the neck, as he turned the head away a deep artery swole like a worm surfacing. He spread a cloth over his palm and gave pressure above the collarbone, a firm squeeze. From the other hand a knifepoint fell upon the worm as quick as a flicker of light caught the motion and the palm drew down; another draining squeeze. The blade was out and away and the hand claimed its red winnings, the smell of iron and a soft metallic patter dribbling into the bucket. “Turn the body back towards me” The pathologist told another to take the pressure where his own hands were as he moved down to the thighs. He released the belt on the body’s trousers, pulled them to the ankles, the lantern sat supported upon a hip. The knees, dun-coloured with filth, were washed from the freshwater pail. A cloth across a palm, a hand pressing the inside of a thigh, a knife point revealed, the process repeated. “Wait” The pathologist paused. A young voice, the groom of the stable, Isaac. “Speak up then” “I want to do it. You told me I was ready.” Lantern raised, within the crooked frame of night shone an adolescent face, spotty and shining with grease, in bold relief to the dwindling hours. “No you will not”, the mortician replied. “Why not”, the boy winced at the tone of authority. “Because yours is the first exploratory incision: breastbone to yolk-stalk” Less than smiling, he nodded. The pathologist turned his attention back to the thigh incision, as the flow fell weaker, the men massaged the flesh to drain the blood as thoroughly as possible. At an earlier hour they would have strung the body up to drain over hours, but it was too late. Identifying whether the old man had been infected with the blight was all that mattered. A blood stained hand twirled the knife around to its handle. The boy was to make his incision. He met the invitation without hesitance. Locating a space beneath the sternum, breath hissed from his nostrils as he drove the knife tip down. A sound of jellied spill blubbered up from the blade slitting down to the groin. He pulled the long puckering gash apart, the body sagged within itself. A pungent gas mushroomed out sour spores of rot and the men recoiled and gagged under their masks, only the mortician and boy keeping close. “Good work. Bring out the large intestine.” The knife aside, the boy reached into the cavity with his hands. A few searching and pulling movements isolated the organ. One of the men staggered outside to vomit. Flecks of ash picked up with the wind outside, turning the black outline of his profile a blotchy gray as he wretched. The pathologist took hold of the cecum and called the lantern in. The veins were marked with star-splayed tendrils of orange blotches, the surrounding epithelium pallid and sick. Closer inspection revealed the speckled pattern to have spread to most of the surrounding organs, the more the blood was drained, the deeper the penetration of infection. “So it has travelled this far”. “As far as the Patea River, it seems. You know what we have to do, right”. “Yeah”. “Then call it”. “Bag it and burn it”. Soon a sack, barrel and canister of gasoline sat at the foot of the corpse in preparation for its disposal. Gusts of voices distant whistled through the barn. The pathologist turned his head, sensing a message on the air. “Quickly now”. A sack was drawn up over the body from the feet upward. The outside voices started to close in; they must have been spotted during collection. Wrangling with the sack turned to hesitation among them. The *second fit*, a violent cadaveric spasm typical to the virus upon the host’s passing, could happen up to 48 hours after all life signs were declared extinct. Such phenomena had been documented as unpredictable and dangerous, explosive with hazardous live contagion. Some accounts went as far as to describe a state of temporary near-reanimation. It was agreed that the intruders beyond had to be deterred and the body hidden before plans for safe disposal could be made. The farm hands moved to close the barn doors and stand guard. The pathologist pulled the boy aside and told him to hide the body. He nodded, nose sniffing, eyes squinting. He looked back at the corpse, the frozen gasp of its jaw pulling the hood taught like a shallow dish, the sack scooped up to its chest, the splay of infected organs an image still impressed upon his mind. It was impossible to imagine anything but nullifying solitude in that cavernous husk, to sense anything but the occluding silence of death’s walls drawn upward. The pathologist shook him. “Listen to me, no matter what you see during our work together, understand that life and death are separate. I need someone young, willing to learn, and without superstition. Someone who will continue my research whatever happens. No matter what you see or hear, nothing resides beyond this life.” “No matter what I see or hear” the boy repeated in reflection. The pathologist had left him to address the commotion outside. The boy reached into the medical bag. He was seeking a sharp, snub-nosed saw. This time he knew they were simply going to lift the sack into the barrel and burn the body whole out back. He knew correct procedure differed. A body going through the second fit while engulfed in fire was a bad idea, no matter the size of barrel. He rolled the sack back down. He could hear voices beyond the gate: “Gentlemen. Ma’am. How can we help you.” “Evening guys, I don’t know if we’ve met. I’m Sherriff Tuteao of the South Taranaki Bight” “Recently appointed, then. Excuse us for being out of the loop, we tend to avoid affairs in town-” “Fine and fair, unfortunately it’s my job to inquire into yours. Would you mind telling me where you fellas were at round three o’clock this afternoon” The voices outside flickered low under the breath of the wind. Dismemberment had to be completed quickly; a fit could occur at any moment. The boy was surprised at the efficiency of the saw, or at how easy it was to cut up a body. Outside, the voices were getting louder. “Been at ranch all day. Got our own witnesses here. Nothing more to it.” The young Maori farmhand gave a curt nod, leaning on the handle of his pitchfork. “Like I said, that’s not what we’ve heard from eyes and ears local. You boys know the river is off limits at the moment. I’m not accusing; I’m asking if you believe there’s been a mistake-” “Ay there’s been a mistake. Got all we need down here, no need be hanging round upstream or down. Bit fed up with that lot over there sticking their ihus in where they’ve no business, though”, another nod suggested the village westward. The pathologist raised a conciliatory hand. “Let’s not be testy, Sheriff’s just doing her job, we need not antagonise the locals”. “Antagonise” the young farmhand repeated with a sniff. “Choice word”. “Look, problem is we’ve had reports suggesting that a group of men were seen dragging a sack southwest from the inlet at three in the evening, large enough to contain a fully grown deer. Now if being there’s bad enough, you should all know hunting’s strictly prohibited.” “And we’re the only group of guys east of town you know about. Understood.” “More to the point, town marks you out. Multiple accounts, similar descriptions. Some saying that if *you* were there” - she kicked the dirt and looked up, as if it were her own, difficult admission - “then previous records and statements in the station’s archives could suggest a pattern of activity. It’s a plausible avenue to explore...” “But again, so we’re clear, you’re not accusing...” he delivered the measured words slowly, in a neutral tone. The farmhands coiled back firmly into their casual stances, exchanging wry looks with clenched jaws. “...I figured on your honesty, meeting you and your lads face to face. You haven’t disappointed me yet. Could we take a look around” Her ingratiating affectations were a statement of intent. The pathologist scanned Sheriff Tutaeo’s wide, freckled face. The domes of her eyes shone in the hearthfire evening, glinting sharp light over black pockets. Despite an exchange of lies by omission - she’d not venture forth with armed men before checking police records - he and her had no want of understanding. The insinuations laced through her talk would pull taut at any resistance to her request. A violent knowledge lingered. The men beside her stood as blank columns of muscle and bone, the blood within them hissed. “This way”. Over the work of the saw the boy could hear the voices outside the barn closing in. He hurried to push the detached limbs down into the sack. His eyes searched the workshop, the hay and manure compartments, the sty. He chose the latter, leaving the sack of limbs and torso hidden behind a trough and a team of bulky sows slumped in their rows, sleeping. His hands shook as he reddened a pail of water with his hands and the saw. Thoughts of his actions flooded his conscience. He had to hide from the voices beyond, from himself, shame and dread entwined, fear and trembling. He ran over to the workshop table, threw the tools underneath, and kneeled on the workbench to wrench a .22 rifle off the wall mount above. The sound of a bolt on the barn door snapped open at the same instant he fell back, taking the rifle and a rusty bracket with him. Scrabbling to his feet he pushed himself behind one of the haystacks, under the whining clatter of the barn door testing its hinges, he fiddled with the rifle’s action, clacked it shut. One. “Indoor feeding lot, workshop with horseshoe forge, bedding. We rotate livestock through here twice a season. We’ll keep poorly stock underroof for monitoring of physical health; hydration, infection treatment, stool quality, so on. We operate by the Bight guidelines, over two-thirds are fit and healthy for transport and slaughter. We compost the rest.” The boy heard the squelch of footsteps in the mud, a group of five, six extra pairs. The tinkling of buckles, holsters and spurs, the groan of leather like a gasping throat. He heard a female voice. “Healthy *for* slaughter, you say, when they leave *here*. Well there’s a lot of blood around, what’s all this mess about?”. The sound of something firm tapping the gasoline canister he’d forgotten about; a stick, the toe of a boot, the end of a weapon. “I said the poorly stay here for a while. See those pigs over there. They’re breeders, but their teats are swollen, they bleed. Damaged produce. When times are tough, less sows are brought to bearing age. There’s a plague out there, as you well know.” “He’s saying we deal what we’re dealt, missus. What you call mess scrapes us a living” one of the farmhands interjected, “...while all else is dying”. The sound of spit hit the ground. The boy heard the piercing whine of a single note in his ears. His mouth was dry and open, his bloody hands shook, clamped around the rifle’s muzzle. He pushed forward through a gap in the hay. A hiss, until he could go no further. The shadows of their bodies stretched together like a fortress mapping the ground, warping under the lamplight. A chill caught his neck, his breathing grew heavier. He was cold. Condensation exhaled from his mouth and nose and he drew a hand up quickly to try and mask it. Everything was cold. The rifle wavered under his arm and nearly fell. His eyes fixed on the dark shapes before him, as portions split from its mass, the centre of the fortress gave way to a passage within. The surrounding arch thickened and pooled into an inky black substance, breaching the translucence that bars shadows from the primary world of their objects’ cast. A deep, subterranean warbling percolated under the piercing din, a noise splitting into voices. He saw the dark heads of human-like figures within the archway. The voices split again and again, an endless fractioning off, the parts increasing beyond the sum, yet if he listened closely, he could hear each individual figure. Worlds of one and all bled together into an hypnotic experiential rush. He felt a giddy sense of omnipotence shroud his voyeurism. Many figures sat beneath the arch. Others came and went within the sparse confines of the interior, some sat on rock-like protrusions, others moved back and forth restlessly, in and out of a vast network of catacombs beyond. One figure leant against a wall, carving a tally, as if counting the members present, or marking time. A veiled, feminine figure stooped down in despair, holding her head in her hands. She sobbed out a long list of names, sometimes leaning back to cry them out as if they were the names of her own children, gone, yet the names were so numerous, so diverse of time and place, that this was impossible. The figures congregated at the centre sat in front of a large wall, their silhouetted bodies obscured whether they looked up at it, or outward. They murmured under the howls of the veiled woman, as if speaking to each other, but they only told their own stories, to themselves. One spoke of an ocean so hot it spat the bones of the life within it out upon the shore, a cage of bleached white ribbing the brown coast for miles. Another recounted the story of an adolescent, delirious from hunger, who injected air into her sick mother by mistake, killing her. He imitated the girl’s helpless weeping with an air of mocking irritation. Another spoke of a seedling that grew a shoot out of scorched, dry land and wouldn’t die. He repeated the tale over and over, like a mantra. But within the mass of stories, a single voice drew in the boy’s reception. “My fault. The blame lies with me. Elsie couldn’t hide me from them any longer. Came for me early morning. I just knew it. Some new, self-appointed lawmaker had her thugs kick down the door. *‘I’m in here, it’s me you want’*. I roll off my bed and claw my fingers into the floorboards, dragging my useless body, breath rattling and I know what’s coming: *‘Else, get out of there’*, but the walls trembled and the guns barked *rah rah rah* screams and I’m hauled over the floor out onto the mud, covered in my baby’s blood. Then the *crack*; a bullet per head. Kill the host and the vectors. Did me last; sentence and execution. Her dead black eyes. Dumped me by Kaupokonui Stream, and that was that. My wife, my daughter. Should’ve taken care of myself as soon as I caught it. At least wherever they went in the end, it isn’t here.” “The stream...” the boy heard himself mouth the words. “*You should know my guilt, Child”* The shadow got up and stepped beyond the congregation. “*You’re the one who opened me up”.* Naked shock lapped over the boy, awareness prickled through his body like a wildfire fever. The faceless audience was facing *him*. The veiled woman cried out a name, impossibly familiar, ancient, yet placeless: *“Abraham”* *“Abraham”* the audience responded in chant, first in the disparity and chaos of their number, then in unity: *“Abraham... Abraham... Abraham”* His gaze trembled, his breath tore in and out like bones raking up on the shore. He was watching the dead speak against the world from the end. The back wall of the cave lit up: his pallid, spotty face, drained with terror, reflected in unbearable brightness. *“Abraham, Abraham, Abraham...”* the black council sped up their chants. “*Be still, lad”* the man said against the chanting, *“you shan’t suffer long, it might be yours that lifts the sentence of our Lord”*. His voice quivered with sadness. A dark gloved hand came down upon the boy’s head, pulling him back by his light blonde hair, exposing the neck. A cold, sharp sting, the teeth of the snub-nosed saw sank upon his throat. A grimy light winked off the crimson surface of the blade. *“Abraham - Abraham”* A voice answered: ***“Here Am I”***. The audience groaned in morbid ecstasy. The man marking tally dragged his score down into the rock, wracked with madness he sank to his knees and the long gouge marked this sacrifice to heaven and dirt as the teeth bit into the young boy’s gulp and the desperate voices clamoured upward like thrashing piranhas. A gunshot erupts. **“Isaac!”** The pathologist runs over to the boy convulsing on the ground by the hay. The boy’s eyes flicker upward, his throat gurgles, but when he feels the pathologist’s arm against his chest he clings to it, holds it close, the struggle ebbing away, his gasps dropping to a sigh. His gaze steadies and stares upward, his parched lips rest into a placid smile, the expression of a martyr passing over. No longer of this world. The second fit smoulders, then dies, within him. A farmhand picks up the discharged rifle. He walks over to one of the men standing near the body of the sheriff. The men look at each other blankly. “Guess we’d call this an accident”. One of her guards tips her head back, exposing a single gunshot wound to the neck. “Guess we would”. “What now, Abe” The pathologist closes Isaac’s eyes, then his. “Burn her with the other body. But not the boy. The young deserve better.