A muffled scream issued from between Jimmy’s lips as he staggered back. The broom slipped from his hands and fell to the tiled floor with a clatter. Jimmy’s wildest fears had become a reality. One of the corpses had come alive.
“Hi, Jimmy,” said the figure.
Panic could not overcome paralysis in Jimmy’s brain. He stood rooted to the floor as the figure in front of him stepped from the shadows of the supply room along with a cold breeze from an open window.
“You look a little pale,” Tony commented. He was holding his gun, but it was pointed toward the floor. “Maybe you’d better climb up on that old porcelain table and lie down.” Tony pointed with his free hand toward the embalming table.
“They made me do it,” Jimmy slobbered when he comprehended he was not dealing with a supernatural creature but rather a live human being obviously associated with Cerino’s organization.
“Yeah, sure,” Tony said in a falsely consoling tone of voice. “But get on the table just the same.”
As Jimmy stepped over to the embalming table with shaky legs, Tony walked over to the wall switch and turned the light on and off several times.
“On the table!” Tony commanded when he noticed that Jimmy was hesitating.
With some effort Jimmy got himself up on the table, sitting on the edge.
“Lie down!” Tony snapped. When Jimmy did so, Tony walked over and looked down on him. “Great place to hide out,” he said.
“It was all Manso’s idea,” Jimmy blurted out. His head was propped up on a black rubber block. “All I did was turn the lights off. I didn’t even know what was going down.”
“Everybody says it was Manso’s idea,” Tony complained. “Of course he’s the only one who didn’t make it from the scene. Too bad he’s not around to defend himself.”
A thump in the supply room heralded Angelo’s entrance. He came into the room warily, looking like a caged animal. He did not like the funeral home. “This place stinks,” he said.
“That’s formaldehyde,” Tony said. “You get used to it. You don’t even smell it after a while. Come over and meet Jimmy Lanso.”
Angelo walked over to the embalming table, eyeing Jimmy with contempt. “Such a little prick,” he said.
“It was Manso’s idea,” Jimmy insisted. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Who else was involved?” Angelo demanded. He wanted to be sure.
“Manso, DePasquale, and Marchese,” Jimmy said. “They made me go.”
“Nobody wants to take any responsibility,” Angelo said with disgust. “Jimmy, I’m afraid you’ve got to go for a little ride.”
“No, please,” Jimmy begged.
Tony leaned over and whispered into Angelo’s ear. Angelo glanced over at the embalming equipment, then back down at Jimmy cowering on the embalming table.
“Sounds appropriate,” Angelo said with a nod. “Especially for such a gutless piece of dog turd.”
“Hold him down,” Tony said with glee. He darted over to the embalming equipment and turned on a pump. He watched the dials until sufficient suction was produced.
Then he wheeled the aspirator over to the table.
Jimmy observed these preparations with growing alarm. Having avoided watching any of the embalming procedures his cousin had performed, he had no idea what Tony was up to. Whatever it was, he was sure he wasn’t going to like it.
Angelo leaned across his chest and held his hands down. Without giving Jimmy a chance to guess what was happening, Tony plunged the knife-sharp embalming trocar into Jimmy’s abdomen and roughly rooted the tip around.
With a stifled scream Jimmy’s face seemed to pull inward as his cheeks went hollow and pale. The canister on the aspirator filled with blood, bits of tissue, and partially digested food.
Feeling queasy, Angelo let go of the boy and turned away. For a second Jimmy’s hands tried to grab the trocar from Tony, but they quickly went limp as the boy lapsed into unconsciousness.
“What do you think?” Tony asked as he stepped away to view his handiwork. “Pretty neat, huh? All I’d have to do is pump him full of embalming fluid with the embalming machine and he’d practically be ready for the grave.”