He put on the clean room gear. The helmet, jumpsuit, gloves, and boots were connected together with Velcro. The clean room was a nice model. He’d ordered it off the internet over a year ago. It worked to keep the mess out of the house and it was easy to clean when he finished.
The body was already on the table. Rigor had come and gone. Most of the blood had congealed and settled, leaving dark spots visible through the skin. The wounds on the boy’s body had scabbed over.
August plugged in the Sawzall. It whirred to life with a high pitched hum. The pitch became deeper as the blade bit into the first piece of flesh. The blade shredded the skin, severed the ligaments, nerves and tendons. The teeth ate through the windpipe with ease. Even when it hit the spine there was very little resistance. It sheared through the bone quickly and effectively. The boy’s head fell to the floor with a thud that couldn’t be heard over the motor of the saw. Dark, almost black, fluid oozed from the wound.
He moved to the arms next. These required bracing. Straps hung from the ceiling. He took his time securing each wrist into its designated strap. If he didn’t, the arm might move and the saw would get into a bind, causing it to not cut through the bone.
The legs were the hardest. He started at the ankles, cutting just above the joint. He repeated the procedure just above the knee. Getting through the femur was always tricky. It dulled the blade. He had to cut it twice on each leg. The saw made a loud whine and the blade broke.
Under his mask, he swore vehemently. It took him a few minutes to replace the blade. The gloves were great for protection, not so great for manipulating small parts.
After he replaced the blade, he went back to cutting off the legs at the hip. He shoved everything except the feet inside a large, heavy duty bag.
Now, he had to work on the torso. He still hadn’t figured out the best way to do it. He knew he had to remove the organs, which was always disgusting.
The saw tore into the chest. Bone dust flew up. Miniature bone slivers filled the air. The flesh was shredded as the saw yanked it away from the body. This is why the body sat for a day before being cut apart, there was less blood to be strewn about the room.
He removed the organs and put them in the bag. He took the saw and began cutting through the ribs. The torso was tedious work. It had to be cut five or six times, in different directions, before it would fit inside.
When he finished, he zipped the bag closed. Everything was inside except the feet. He used a sprayer hose to rinse the table. The water splashed and flung droplets cascading across the room as the stainless steel table was cleaned. Drains built into the table, carried away the messy leftovers of his dismemberment. Next, he dried it with a plush, soft dark blue towel.
The feet he put on the table and began examining them. They were dirty; caked with mud and blood. This would never do. He turned the water back on, making sure it was warm, and began to clean the feet.
He’d been very careful to remove them about an inch above the ankle joint. Ensuring to cut the tibia and fibula with the precision that would have made a doctor proud. The feet were mostly just scratched and cut. The result of being barefoot when forced to walk across the property into the barn. However, one wound caught his eye. It was bigger than the others, deeper.
August reached for the filet knife that he kept close by. Very carefully, he began to scrape at the wound, removing the tissue in layers and chunks until the bone was visible. This done, he washed the foot again. It was ready for the final step.
A package of tube socks, protected by a zip lock bag, set on a counter top in the room. He dried his hands and made sure they were clean before opening the package. The socks were bright white and brand new. He took them over to the feet.
Moving with ease, that was only learned through experience, he put the severed left foot into a sock. He did the same with the right. Using the extra material, he tied the socks together, ensuring that the feet dangled in them like sausages.
It took both hands to carry the duffle bag full of dismembered body parts out to his truck. He returned to his barn and grabbed the socks. Outside the clean room, he now disrobed from his clean suit. He picked up the socks and headed back outside.
He drove the twenty-one miles to the river and tossed the duffle bag into the black water. It gurgled as it sank. Even on the best days, the visibility was practically zero here. At night, only the nocturnal creatures could see his deed. He got back into the truck and drove into town.
It was late when he arrived. The bars had all closed. A few drunks loitered in the streets, talking loudly or stumbling, as they went wherever they went. He turned into a residential neighborhood. It had once been one of those fancy ones, the kind where everyone with money wanted to live, but those days were gone. It had become lower class, filled with starter homes for young families. The streets had become crowded. The small yards unappealing. It had been replaced by bigger houses in better neighborhoods. He drove slowly down the street. No lights shown from windows. No security lights flashed on. A few houses had left their outside lights burning through the night, more out of forgetfulness than anything else.
He stopped the truck in the middle of the road and tossed the socks. They wrapped neatly around a utility wire. He tried not to giggle as he got back inside, pulling his door shut very quietly, ensuring not to wake the neighborhood. Slamming doors would be unusual here at this time of night.
With the feet now safely out of his possession, he turned the truck around. He drove out of the neighborhood and was gone, disappearing into the night on an old highway that was hardly ever used. He headed east, homebound. The night was clear and cold. It had snowed a few days earlier and cinders had turned the snow black. His headlights reflected off the blackened mounds of dirty ice and onto clean, undisturbed fields of snow. He’d used his tractor to clear his driveway a few days earlier.
His tires crunched over frozen gravel as he returned. He got out of the truck and walked to the old barn. Inside, the clean room still needed to be cleaned and dismantled. He set to work. By sunrise, his muscles were starting to ache, but the room was clean. All the pieces were stacked against the wall, looking like cubicles from an abandoned office building. He left the heat running in the building and went to the house.
The house was colder. A chill had crept in as the fireplace had slowly begun to die out. He piled wood in it, bringing it back from the brink of death. The new wood hissed and popped as it soaked in the heat and flames and fueled the fire back to a roaring inferno.
August was about to sit down when he remembered he hadn’t put the meat up. He sighed heavily and put his coat back on. He trekked back out to the barn and hung the meat he’d fileted off the back and ribs of the boy he’d just dumped in the river, into an old section of the barn. It had once been used to cure pork, but those days were long gone. Something growled, he turned and caught a glint of light from Genevieve, his pet jaguar. Her cage took up the largest part of the barn and cost a fortune to heat, but it was worth it.
“Genny,” he cooed at her. She gave a low, guttural growl in response. A second, higher pitched growl followed. It came from the darkness behind Genny. Vera, his other pet, was hiding, but didn’t want to go completely unnoticed. “Good girls,” he cooed at them again before leaving.