Chapter 21 #2
Calloway heads to the door, steps outside and returns a few minutes later with a blue bin.
“This should work,” he says, setting it on the kitchen floor.
Lazlo nods, still holding Marcel’s hand. “Pour some in,” he instructs, gesturing toward the drain cleaner.
Calloway unscrews the cap. A thick, viscous gel slumps into the bin, pooling at the bottom with an oily, rainbow sheen under the kitchen lights.
“Now the hand,” Calloway says.
Lazlo lowers Marcel’s hand into the bin. There is no splash. Only a sharp, violent hiss as the lye makes contact, and a furious boil erupts around the flesh.
“Close it,” I say, aware of fumes rising. “Close it now.”
Calloway snaps the lid on, but not before a waft of something truly unholy reaches my nostrils. It’s like rotten eggs, battery acid, and decaying flesh all combined. The smell punches me in the face so hard I gag.
“Jesus Christ,” I choke out, my sleeve clamped over my nose and mouth.
Calloway stumbles back, coughing, his eyes streaming. Even Lazlo, the architect of this horror, recoils, his face pinched in disgust.
Thin, greasy wisps of yellowish-green vapor curl from the edges, a toxic ghost escaping its prison. My eyes are on fire. It feels like inhaling sand.
“The lid’s not tight,” I wheeze between coughs.
“I can see that,” Calloway says.
A strong whiff hits me, and I double over, coughing so hard I think I might bring up a lung. My throat feels like I’ve swallowed broken glass.
“We need to take this outside,” Lazlo says, his composed demeanor cracking as he backs toward the door. “Now.”
The three of us stagger outside with our toxic bin, coughing and gasping for fresh air.
“Put it down over there,” I choke out, pointing to a spot away from the house. “Away from the trees. And for God’s sake, be careful.”
They set it down, and we retreat a good twenty feet upwind, sucking in the clean, rain-washed air. My lungs burn. My eyes water so badly, the world becomes a blurry mess.
“That,” I say between coughs, “is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever smelled in my life.”
“I agree.” Calloway wipes his streaming eyes with his sleeve. “And I’ve been around a lot of decomposing bodies.”
“The wind’s blowing that way,” Lazlo points out, gesturing away from us. “We should be okay if we stay here.”
We stand in silence, catching our breath and watching the plastic bin from a distance. Occasional wisps of vapor escape from under the lid, dissipating into the night air.
“So...how long does this take?” I ask, breaking the silence.
Calloway shrugs. “Never done it before, remember?”
“Hours? Days? I need a timeframe.” I wrap my arms around myself, cold in the night air.
“We should check,” Calloway suggests after about fifteen minutes. “See if it’s working.”
“I’m not opening that thing,” I protest.
“I’ll do it.” Calloway approaches the bin, covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve. He nudges the lid with his foot, lifting one corner just enough to peek inside.
He jumps back, turning away and gagging.
“That bad?” I call out.
“Worse,” he replies, hurrying back to our position. “It’s bubbling, but... I can’t tell if it’s working.”
The hours crawl by. We take turns keeping watch while the others rest. Lazlo pacing the yard like a restless guard dog, Calloway documenting the process with clinical notes, and me, eventually curled up against Calloway’s shoulder, exhaustion winning over adrenaline.
I drift in and out of sleep, waking each time someone moves or checks the bin.
Dawn creeps across the sky slowly, painting the yard in pale gray light that makes everything look surreal. By mid-morning, the vapor has lessened considerably. The sun beats down on us, making the whole backyard feel like a crime scene, baking in the heat.
“Twelve hours,” Lazlo announces, checking his watch. “Time for a final check.”
We approach together, a united front of morbid curiosity and dread. Calloway uses a long branch to pry the lid open.
The smell is different now—still horrific, but with a new, acrid note of burnt plastic. I force myself to look. What remains is a blackened, skeletal claw suspended in a thick, tar-like sludge. The flesh is mostly gone, but the dark, brittle bones are still unmistakably a hand.
“The bones are still there,” Lazlo observes, leaning closer despite the fumes. “They’re not dissolving like in the movies.”
“Shit,” I whisper. “This isn’t working.”
The plastic bin itself has warped around the edges, eaten away by the caustic chemicals. A small crack has formed along one side, threatening to leak the mixture onto the ground.
“The bin’s breaking down,” I point out, backing away. “If that spills—”
“We’re screwed,” Lazlo finishes.
We stare at the bin in collective horror. This was our “simple” solution. Now we have a half-dissolved hand in a leaking tub of chemical sludge, and an entire body still waiting for us inside the house.
“If we can’t even dissolve one hand, how are we supposed to get rid of an entire body?”
Calloway runs his fingers through his hair. “We need a new plan.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” I snap. “Any brilliant ideas?”
Lazlo looks between us, then back at the bin. “We can’t burn. We can’t bury him with all those animals around. Can’t dump him in the lake or he’ll float, eventually.”
The bin makes an ominous cracking sound. All three of us take another step back.
Calloway looks from the failing bin to the dark, silent house, and then back again. The look on his face is one of profound, professional defeat. “We need to stop thinking like amateurs.”