Page 43 of Rage

Despite his size and not-quite-up-to-par physical condition, Doc rappels into the ravine like a pro. A younger technician, armed with a medical bag and camera, uses a second rope to scale the wall behind him. The last thing I want to do is go back down there. I don’t have a choice.

Doc and I wade through bramble. I hear the tech behind us, the snap and whirr of the camera as he documents the scene. All of us donned the usual biohazard protection—Tyvek suits, shoe covers, masks, and gloves. The thorns have nearly shredded our suits by the time we reach the barrel.

My stomach quivers as I sidle around to the open end of the drum and look inside. The top of the head and shoulders are covered with flies. The smell has worsened, probably due to the heat and lack of air circulation here at the base of the ravine.

Doc sighs. “Let’s document as best we can,” he says to the technician, and then turns his attention to me. “We’re not going to remove this body from the barrel down here,” he says.

I agree with the statement, but I don’t like it.

“We need to ID him,” I say. His expression turns dubious so I add, “Even if I can get a look at his face or take a photo for my own use, I may be able to identify him that way.”

“I don’t have to tell you facial constructs change with death. And with all this heat…” His mask flutters with another sigh. “Let’s see what we can do.”

Doc Coblentz makes eye contact with his technician. “You have photos of the victim and scene?”

“I do.”

“We’re going to move the head so that the face is visible,” Doc says. “For identification purposes.”

“Sure.” Raising his hands to protect the camera and medical bag from the clutching thorns, the tech wades over to us.

“A lot of biohazard,” Doc says. “Double up your gloves.”

The tech opens the medical bag and pulls out three pair, passes two to us. I’m sweating profusely as I slip the second pair of gloves over the first. I can feel the sun beating down on my head and shoulders.

The doc moves to the barrel. I watch as the technician pushes through brush and goes to the opposite side.

“We may be dealing with rigor at this stage,” Doc says.

The technician looks down at the body. Not with the horror of seeing a decaying human body packed into a drum, but with the cool curiosity of a science student faced with a baffling puzzle and nearly impossible challenge.

“Let’s reach inside,” Doc begins. “We might be able to get some leverage beneath the chin. Let’s lift the head as much as we can and tilt the face upward so that it’s visible.”

“Retractor?” the technician asks.

“Let’s start with the four-prong,” Doc replies.

Digging into his medical equipment bag, the technician locates the tool he’s looking for.

“Slide it beneath the chin and lift,” Doc says. “See if we can get a look at this poor young man.”

I’m keenly aware of bile climbing up the back of my throat as the technician maneuvers the retractor into place. A combination of the sight of the body, the heat, the mask I’m wearing, and the stench of death is nauseating and claustrophobic.

I watch as the head shifts slightly. I see the jaw loll. The mouth open.

“I got rigor,” the technician says.

Nodding, Doc Coblentz digs into the bag and removes some type of curved, flat-ended probe. Gently, he sets the flat end against the victim’s jaw and uses the edge of the barrel for leverage.

“If this doesn’t work, we’re out of options, Kate.” He looks at me through the lenses of his protective goggles. “You’ll have to wait for that ID.”

The head shifts. The sickening sound of flesh peeling away from the side of the drum sounds. The back of the head tilts downward. The face comes into view. The mouth is open. I see broken teeth. Swollen lips the color of eggplant stretched taut. A tongue that’s been bitten nearly in half. The eyes are partially open and so cloudy I can’t discern the color of the irises. I recognize him at about the same time the horror of it seizes my brain and shakes. I take an involuntary step back. Too hot. Not enough air. I need to throw up, but the mask is in the way.

“It’s Shetler,” I hear myself say. “Shit.”

Turning, I set my eyes on the rope that will take me out of the ravine. My head is swimming. No idea if I can make it up. One foot in front of the other. One step at a time.

I hear the doc and technician talking behind me. “Let’s get this poor young man topside.”