The night was cold. Timothy tucked his legs under the huge brown desk, adjusted his earphones, and continued scrolling through his phone. The night was quiet, the crickets’ symphony echoing through the dead of the night. Timothy erupted in laughter at a video on his phone, something about the virus respecting the new curfew imposed by the government. He put his hand quickly over his mouth, as his eyes darted across the room. No one came asking who that was, the crickets continued chirping; the night did not respond.
The weeks after the first few cases were confirmed were the most confusing. There was so much information out there that it was hard to tell right from left, the conspiracy theories from the scientific theories. People were using humour to deny that this pandemic was happening, that they had somehow found ourselves living in the epicentre of a history-defining moment. Timothy was not one to consider himself quick-witted, or funny, so he kept scrolling and enjoying the memes and videos. Black men are immune; Africans are immune; Jesus is in Nigeria — how will there be corona when there is a corrosive anointing, and other stories. They were all wrong. Dead bodies started dropping on the streets, and the government panicked and shut down the country.
Timothy was reading another WhatsApp BC about the growing number of the dead in Nigeria and the government’s plan to offer palliatives to those who could not afford the shutdown. Timothy sighed and quickly moved on to something else. He was hard-pressed to believe any of this after all his government cared about was stealing money. And with all the money that was coming in as ‘aid’, there was more money available than ever now. When had they ever cared about human lives?
Timothy had had his fair share of dealing with death, and dead bodies. He was spending the night in the morgue after all. As a morgue technician, he had to receive the bodies that came into the morgue, catalogue and store them. The dead may tell no tales — their bodies always did, he learnt over the years — but they demanded attention from the living. The dead did not care about the lockdown. As such, Timothy was an essential worker. And while that did come with its perks — he could visit his ‘women’ — it also meant that the work never stopped. And how could it? People never stop dying.
For Timothy, it had been even harder to believe all the fuss over this pandemic because all through the lockdown bodies had not stopped coming in, but he had yet to receive one that was as a result of the virus. And he worked in a centre that was touted as the national isolation centre. He had gotten bodies beaten to death by officers ensuring the lockdown, bodies beaten to death by husbands or wives, or bodies beaten to death by illness. Not a single body belonging to a confirmed case of the virus. Until earlier that evening.
The first thing Timothy thought, from behind his heavy protective equipment, while they moved the body into the inner room of the morgue, was how serene the body looked. It did not have any giveaway signs like most of the bodies he had received before had. It looked like a body intent on hiding its secrets, if they were even any, he thought. Timothy became Thomas; unless he saw the virus himself, he would not believe. He secured the body at the farthest mortuary chamber in the room, checked that the bolts were functioning, and left the room. The autopsy would be the next day, if anyone would offer to do it, scared as they all were now. He left the room, registered the body in the new hardcover he had been given for that purpose. #001, he wrote, and thought nothing more of it. Another dead body.
Timothy removed the left ear of his earphones and stared into the night, through the window that was behind him. The reception of the morgue was not spacious, the guests of the dead could wait outside; there were just the chair and the table at which Timothy sat, with the corridor leading to the call room, and the mortuary chambers. He placed the earphone back in his ear and continued listening to the song his shuffle had randomly picked for him. Maybe I imagined it, he thought. He hadn’t, and the rustling continued. He pulled both earphones, and listened again for the noise that he was sure was definitely not his head now. He heard it, a periodic clanging of metal, marked with shuffling and rustling of leaves? Feathers? He was not sure. He dropped his earphones on the table, stood up, and shone his phone’s flashlight out into the night. The rustling stopped.
He sighed, stretched his arms, and sat down on the chair. He grabbed his charger from the wall socket beside him as he prepared to head to the call room. He had just stood up when he heard the rustling again. He paused and listened to identify the source of this noise. He peeked his head in the corridor and stepped back after a few minutes. The sound was coming from the mortuary chamber. Timothy had never heard anything of this sort since he started being a morgue technician. He paused, his eyes frantically searching the room for a plausible reason for the noise. There was nothing. It seemed like the noise was truly coming from the chamber. Timothy had watched enough movies to know that he who checks, dies first. He was not dying tonight. He turned around and headed for the door.
Timothy had stepped a few feet away from the door when he realised that, in his hurry, he had forgotten his phone on the table. He stopped, made a quick sign of the cross, suddenly religious at the moment, and turned to face the door. The door gave way easily and Timothy stepped into the reception.
He froze. The source of the noise was apparent now. On the floor, draped in the cloth used to cover him, was what looked to be #001. Timothy was not sure it was, but that was the cloth that was used to drape him. That, he was sure of. Behind the body on the floor was a trail of blood-stained mucus, like the body had been crying and struggling in pain to get to where it was. Timothy kept his eyes on #001 and used his hands to feel for his phone on the table to his right. His hands felt the phone, and he clutched it. Slowly, he made to withdraw his hand when he noticed that #001 was moving gingerly. The movement started from its legs, it was pulling them to its core, and then to its shoulders which seemed to be inching ever closer to Timothy. Timothy felt like he was watching an earthworm or caterpillar wriggle its way across the room. As Timothy was about to step out of the reception, back first, #001 raised its head and stared at Timothy. Its eyes were empty, nose leaking the bloody goo heavily, and cracked lips wide open. It kept staring at Timothy with those empty eyes. Timothy’s legs could not move. He stared back and kept staring. And then #001’s face exploded into a wide knowing grin.
Timothy unfroze. He turned off the light, backed out of the room, and shut the door gently. Monsters might be like dogs, he mused, running and screaming might seem to them an invitation to play. He did not scream. He did not run. He did not want to play. He just kept walking into the night.
Twitter: @theosondu
Thank you all so much for the reads, and responses last week. I enjoyed reading every one of them! I hope you enjoy this one as well! Share, comment, and share again. Let me know what you think. Thank you for reading! See you next Sunday! Stay safe
