‡CHAPTER FOUR‡
THIRD PERSON
(Earlier)
A grunt tore her throat as the woman dragged the corpse to the furnace, her muscle burning with each step, her breath coming in ragged bursts. The furnace roared, the heat became unbearable searing her eyelashes, drying the sweat on her face before it could drip. The heat lashed at her skin as she heaved the dead weight on to the iron maw. With a final shove, the body rolled in. The woman watched through the door of the furnace, letting the fire do the rest of the work.
Rows of metallic beds stretched out in precise lines, each bearing the weight of a corpse covered in tattered blanket. Some almost looked skeletal, withered and brittle–skin stretched tight over bones, these bodies probably witness the long agonizing torture of starvation, which is common in this world where the sun can never reach. Other bore the wounds of a violent and brutal actions, a testament of a merciless and savage death, dealt by creatures who had lost all signs of humanity–driven by instincts far darker and more primal than any beast to be tamed.
She walked slowly, her steps echoing in the quiet. The rows of metal beds seemed endless as she moved down the line. She paused, tracing the insides of her apron pocket pulling out a thin sheet of pabilo paper and a pen.
The pabilo paper was a patched work of hemp, woven with the tough treads of mycelium, uneven edges and slight wrinkles, a reminder of the tired hands that manually created it. The pen was rough yet functional, it's body crafted with metal, with the tip fashioned from a sharpened piece of iron. The ink a dark liquid refined from coals itself.
She walked towards the next bed, stopping in front of the next body to be burned. With a practice hand, she reached down and gently pulled the sheet back, exposing the face of a woman. Slipping her hand into her apron pocket again, she retrieved a piece of iron, the name, address and age carved into it, each letter was uneven darkened by the flames that had been used to engraved the letters into the metal. She held it for a moment before setting it down beside the body.
Martina
19
Middle Circle, Section 78
She held the pen tightly with her fingers, and began to write on the thin pabilo paper, ready to mark the usual; blunt force trauma, penetrating trauma, illness, starvation. She examined the body, searching for the cause of death. A wound, bruises or anything that can justify the death.
As her gaze move downward, she paused. There's a large hole in the woman's clothing, in the abdomen. The fabric was torn open, jagged at the at the edges like something brute has punctured through it. But beneath, the skin was untouched, smooth and intact. Her brows furrowed, this isn't right, she said in her mind. If there had been an injury, there should be torn flesh or any wound, considering she reeks the smell of dried blood. Confused, the woman continued to inspect the dead body.
She reached for the woman's wrist, pressing two fingers against it, then moved up to her neck, tilting the head tightly to check for signs of strangulation. No bruises, no broken capillaries beneath the skin. Her fingers trailed lightly along the jawline before proceeding to examine the lips. No bluish tinge, no foaming–no signs of poisoning. Her attention panned at the woman's eyes, they remained closed as if the woman just fell into a deep slumber. She stood there, staring at the body, her grip on the pen tightened as a strange uneasiness creeped to her chest.
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"Come again?" The soldier asked his voice laced with annoyance, his back resting against the rough stone wall. His arms crossed, the dark segmented plates of his armor styled in classical plate armory shifted with the motion.
"I need you to come with me." She repeated her voice steady but urgent.
"I need you to confirm something about the corpse you delivered earlier."
The soldier groaned, tilting his head back.
"God damn woman, it's a corpse what else do you want me to check?"
The woman shook her head in disappointment and stepped closer.
"There are no wounds, no signs of poisoning, or signs of strangulation. Tell me that doesn't sound weird."
"People die all the time here, maybe they starved or got ill. Just write it down and moved on, it's not that big." He scoffed. The woman's jaw tightened, letting out a sharp breath barely restraining her frustration, she's a step away from crashing out and start spamming profanity in the soldiers face.
"You think I haven't consider doing that? I checked countless bodies every single day. Is it really that hard to pull your ass and come with me, what if it's not just some unfortunate soul who dropped dead, what if it's something worse."
The soldiers expression flickered for a brief moment–irritated, furious, hesitation. Then just as that, it returned to same tired expression.
"You're paranoid." He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. Before she could even lash out to the man, the sounds of boots echoed in the dimly lit corridor.
"What's happening here?" A commanding voice cut through the tension. The commander emerged from the shadows, appearing as a tall and dominant individual, carrying a regal yet intimidating presence. His face sharp and well defined, with high cheekbones, a strong jawline and a smooth pale skin. His eyebrows thick and arched, adding an intense expression, his roman nose and narrow lips are finely sculpted, giving him an elegant yet imposing look.
Both turned as the commander approached, his white hair messy a sign of wearing a helmet for too long. The woman as if she saw a saint, hurriedly took a step past the stationed soldier, greeting the Commander as he approached.
"Commander Madrid, I'm glad that you arrive, that dipshit over there wont listen to my pleas." The woman straightened her posture.
"Commander Madrid, she's making a fuss over a dead body, wants me to leave my station to play detective." The soldier let out an exhausted sigh thinking to himself he's about to get his ass kick because of a woman getting tormented by paranoia.
"What's the issue?" The commander asked still his tone commanding. He stopped walking, letting the woman speak whatever her business is.
"Commander there's this body in the crematorium that I handle–a body that doesn't show any signs that I can use to address it's cause of death. I need someone to confirm her death." The woman didn't hesitate.
"What's the name?" The commander's gaze narrowed.
"Martina, from Middle Circle, Section 78." The woman answered quickly. The Commander was visibly stunned from a moment before nodding.
"Show me."
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The two individuals entered the crematorium room. The woman breath hitched, her fingers went cold as she scanned the empty metal bed, blood stains being visible from it. Beside her, Commander Madrid stood arms crossed, his sharp gaze glancing at every corner of the room.
"Where is she?" Madrid frowned as he also noticed the empty slab with a crumpled sheet lay in mess.
"I-i don't know, when I left it she's still there." She whispered her voice shaking as if fear has already taken control over her. Madrid brows knitted, stepping forward as he search the body in the corners of the metal bed, he crouched and peered beneath it thinking it could have slide.
Shit.. Madrid cursed in his mind as his eyes searched the room for something that could pinpoint where's the corpse. Until he saw a sack of coal, sitting quietly in the corner of the room, it's fabric being torn and worn.
Madrid stood, his face unreadable but somehow the woman managed to pick up.
"Give me his name."
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