The Body Farmer
By: Adrien Carver
Tags: Dead, Short Story, Fiction, Autopsy, Body Farm

“They need to move me,” bitched Archie. “I’m getting rained on.”

“That’s the point,” Gore explained for the twentieth time that afternoon.

“I didn’t agree to this,” Archie grumbled. “I never would’ve donated myself if it meant water in my eyes every time there’s a drizzle.”

“I’ve told you before,” said Gore. “You must stay put or you’ll disrupt the study.”

“How much longer could it possibly take?”

“I’ll ask.”

Archie Barnes had died of liver failure earlier that month. His body was only a week into his study. He was a complainer.

Grace Patton, who’d passed of complications from pneumonia, was more polite.

“I’ve been leaning on this window for longer than I can remember,” she told Gore. “My armpit is killing me. Is it really necessary I be leaning like this? Can’t I be settled comfortably back into the seat? Would that disrupt the study?”

“I’m afraid it would,” said Gore.

No matter how you explained it to these people, they were never satisfied. The only difference between dead people and living people were that the living tended to not complain so much.

Gore Paddington was the resident medium at the Farmington University Body Farm. It was his job to go around and make sure the residents were comfortable and attended to as their bodies decayed and were researched for forensic purposes.

Since their bodies were not at rest, their spirits were not allowed to depart the physical realm. There was no way for residents to know this when they signed up to donate their bodies to science and many of them reacted badly when Gore presented this news.

“WHADDYA MEAN I GOTTA STAY HERE TIL I’M PROPERLY BURIED?!” Archie had screeched. All of them grumbled about waiting at first, but most got used to it by the end of the first week. They enjoyed the sights and sounds of nature.

There were many of them. Charlie Cannery was over by the pond. He was the youngest corpse, a 21-year-old who’d died of an accidental pill overdose. Faith Markowicz was under the willow tree. Betty Brankinzski was getting eaten by a colony of termites. Fred Rottendem was in the cattails. Bruce Kattlet was underneath the car that Grace Patton was seated in.

All the bodies were under some form of protection — wire mesh cages strung over them or fenced-in enclosures that looked like small chicken coops or tree stands. The corpses saw Gore coming and grinned their startingly bright grins (their teeth seemed even whiter agains the browning decay of their skin) and their sunken eye sockets crinkled with smiles. Most were friendly and happy to see him.

All the bodies had gripes (mostly minor) and most were just bored and wanted to talk. Pretty much like any other customer service job.

Gore went from person to person with his clipboard, checking things off as he went.

“Are you satisfied with the premises? Why or why not? How long have you been here now? Have there been any animals about? Are you being treated well? How have you been feeling lately? How have you changed since you were set here? How big are your maggots? How much are you bloating? How bad is the smell coming off you? What’s your rate of decay? How much flesh is left inside you? Let me list off the major organs and you tell me what you have left and the approximate percentage of said organ still intact…” And so on.

He ticked off item after item, pen clicking on the plastic clipboard. He nodded patiently and listened patiently and stood patiently while the stranded phantoms made their reports.

Reggie Cornes was nearly completely skeletonized and would be getting transferred within a week or so. He was set half-in and half-out the swamp near a stagnant, stinking frog pond. He was Gore’s last stop.

For a second Gore thought Reggie might’ve lost the ability to speak, as he was face-down in the dirt and leaves and his lower jaw had fallen off. But as Gore approached, Reggie’s arm flew out and grabbed the jawbone, connected it, and turned his head to face Gore.

“Hey Gore,” he said. “Happy Friday.”

“Happy Friday, Reggie.”

“Can’t believe it’s been so long,” said Reggie, scraps of papery flesh all that was left of his mortal remains aside from the dirty bones the process had exposed. “Seems like yesterday I was dying of throat cancer.”

“Time does fly when you’re dead,” said Gore. “The veil of time is lifted and all that.”

“Mmm-hmm,” said Reggie. His bone fingers pulled at a beard that was no longer there.

Gore sighed.

It’s a living, he thought, clicking his pen and asking the skeleton the first question on his list.