King of the Corpses

CW: Violence, death, substance abuse

The rickety wagon creaks down the cobblestone road toward the cemetery.

A stout, bearded man in a black cape and a bowler hat stands at the gate. He strikes a match, lights a cigar, and nods to the wagon’s occupants.

Dragma Olini climbs down from the wagon and places several gold coins into the night watchman’s outstretched hand.

He grins at Valka, who pokes her nose into the air.

“How’s ya like ta help me spend me newfound fortune, girlie?”

The broad-shouldered blonde spits at his feet. “I’d rather be buried alive.”

The wagon rolls quietly toward the fresh grave of Jamison Jackson.

The trio climbs out. Valka reaches into her coat pocket for a match, lighting a lantern.

“Get to work,” Dragma commands. 

Sigma Olini and Valka dig into the soft earth.

“Grounds like puddin’,” Sigma says gleefully.

Within minutes, Dragma’s strong assistants strike at Jamison Jackson’s coffin. Sigma bores a hole through the wood, exposing Jackson’s head.

Dragma rubs his hands together greedily. Wiry, agile, and cunning, thirty-eight-year-old Dragma, known as the “King of the Corpses,” abandoned his combative family at seventeen for a whaler’s adventurous lifestyle. Disemboweling whales instilled in him a sense of desecration, and the fear and revulsion it evokes gave Dragma the feeling of having power over the living and the dead.

Dragma stayed away from Camden, New Jersey, for nearly fifteen years, long enough for most of his family to die of poverty, addiction, and alcoholism. Three years ago, he fell in with Monk Mayhem, the primary supplier of corpses to Dr. Crispin Green, the head surgeon at Cooper Medical School. When Dragma took over, Monk became his first delivery.

Needing muscle, Dragma hired his younger brother, Sigma, a dockworker whose love of alcohol kept him from working steadily. Illiterate but soft-hearted, with scars from old wounds on his brow, the muscular twenty-nine-year-old is considered a fun-loving, peaceful grizzly bear incapable of hurting anyone, despite his 260 pounds.

At 6’ 2”, with a personality as bold as her frame, Valka Volkova came to her newfound profession by chance. A former barmaid at Fat Teddy’s, one of Camden’s roughest bars, Valka was trashing two brawny sailors who had made suggestive comments to her when Dragma entered the bar. Appealing to their shared Slavic heritage, he suggested that Valka could earn twice as much by using her strength, so she joined the team.

The trio stares at the body of Jamison Jackson, a blacksmith who was struck down by a stroke while hammering a horseshoe.

“Looks like he died sufferin’ horribly,” Sigma says.

“So?”

“Maybe it ain’t right to disturb somebody who’s already suffered so much. I mean, lookit ‘im. His face is all twisted. It’s like he’s screamin’.”

“For the last time, Sigma, when you're dead, you're dead. You don’t feel anything,” Dragma says.

Valka kneels at the grave. “Looks like he was afraid to die. Might be bad luck to tamper with him.”

“I don’t pay you two muscleheads to think. It’s 1852. We’re not in Salem, living in fear of witches. Dr. Green’s waiting for him. Get the bag, Sigma.”

Sigma snaps his fingers. “Knew there was somethin’ I forgot.”

Dragma closes his eyes, taking a deep breath to steady himself.

“Calm down, Dragma,” Valka says. “He’s still fresh. We don’t have to hide him. We can prop him up in the wagon.”

Sigma’s petrified stare dwells on Jamison Jackson.

“Well, pull him out, Sigma!”

“I… I can’t. There’s somethin’ wrong with this…”

“Yeah, you’ve lost your nerve.”

“The body’s just an empty shell,” Valka reminds Sigma.

She playfully sticks a corn cob pipe into Jamison’s mouth. “Now he can ride along like he’s one of us.”

                                               ***

                                               ***

The wagon pulls into the hospital’s alley.

Dr. Crispin Green opens the back door, looking around. Handsome, sophisticated, and well-groomed, the thirty-three-year-old Chair of Cooper Union Hospital is an accomplished surgeon and instructor, known for discoveries regarding the functions of the lungs and heart.

“You’re late.”

“This isn’t a furniture delivery, Doc. We had some complications.”

“Such as?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s handled. Take him inside.”

Valka turns to Sigma, who shakes his head.

“That stuff I said about him bein’ bad luck was a bunch of malarky,” Valka says.

“I don’t wanna touch him.”

Valka throws Jamison Jackson over her shoulder, carrying him past Crispin’s stunned expression.

“I can’t get over how such a handsome woman would be involved in this.”

“Hard to get good help these days. I heard the McGonigle family drowned today. They had two kids. I can have all four here tomorrow night, but it’ll cost you two hundred.”

“That’s double.”

“You can afford it, Doc. We’re taking a risk because they’re being buried at Holy Cross Cemetery. I don’t have an understanding with their night watchman. You might get an extra body.”

“I didn’t hear that. But I need the bodies. I’ve got twice as many students this semester.”

Crispin looks at Sigma, who is sitting in the wagon, rocking back and forth.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing, aside from being stupid and superstitious. You got my money?”

“I’ll pay you tomorrow night when you deliver the McGonigles.”

To underscore the gravity of the moment, Dragma places his hands on Crispin’s shoulders, squeezing them hard.

“You’d better have my money, Doc. You don’t want to try to cheat death.”

                                               ***

A few nights later, Dragma, Sigma, and Valka tread quietly through the Garden of Remembrance Cemetery.

The tools Sigma’s carrying clank together.

Dragma admonishes his brother. “For chrissakes, keep quiet!”

“Why are you fearful? There’s no nightwatchman here,” Valka says to Sigma.

“Which means we could get pinched at any minute by the coppers.”

The trio stops in front of a life-sized monument of a little girl and her dog.

“What’s this, Dragma?” Sigma protests. “You know I don’t like diggin’ up kids.”

“This one's different,” Dragma replies. “Kathleen Goodie. She was a genius. She spoke French, Spanish, and Italian, and she sang like a bird. It’s been said she could talk to animals, which explains the dog statue. She was playing by the docks when a skunk murdered her. Anyway, Dr. Green wants a look at her brain, and for an extra hundred dollars, he’s going to get a peek and then some.”

Sigma and Valka exchange concerned looks.

Sigma continues to protest. “I got no problem with Green choppin’ up some drunk, but a child? If there’s a boat that takes you to hell, this’ll surely buy us a ticket.”

Valka pats him on the shoulder. “Sooner we get this done, the faster you can forget about it.”

“What makes you think I can?”

“Rum works for me.”

“Will you two chuckleheaded chatterboxes get to it?” Dragma grumbles.

Sigma shivers as Valka digs into the grave. “You feel a sudden chill in the air?”

“Get in there and help her!”

The pair uncovers Kathleen Goodie’s coffin. Valka pries off the lid.

Sigman and Valka drop their shovels.

“You hear that?” Valka asks.

A voice sings,

“Oh where, oh where

Has my little dog gone?

Oh where, oh where can he be?

With his ears cut short

And his tail cut long

Oh where, oh where can he be?”

“Shut up, Valka!” Dragma snaps.

“Wasn’t me.”

Sigma and Valka scurry out of the grave.

“Well, get her out!” Dragma insists.

“You want her, you get her,” Sigma replies.

Clutching a canvas bag, Dragma jumps into the grave. He hesitates, struck by the girl’s pristine blue dress and the bright sheen of her blonde hair, adorned with red ribbons.

“Pretty child,” Valka comments. “Looks like she’s sleepin’.”

“Oh where, oh where

Has my little dog gone?

Oh where, oh where can he be?

With his ears cut short

And his tail cut long

Oh where, oh where can he be?”

“You’re not scaring me, Valka.”

“I told you before, Dragma. I’m not tryin’ to.”

Sigma bends down, looking more closely at Kathleen’s corpse.

“Is that… Is that blood on her lips?”

Dragma quickly covers Kathleen’s head with the canvas bag.

Sigma and Valka reluctantly help pull Kathleen’s body from her grave.

Dragma secures the body in the wagon. “There. Was that so hard? You two pigeon-livered lugs had better shape up. There’s plenty of penniless pugs out there who can stomach this work and take your place.”

His head bowed in shame, Sigma climbs into the seat beside Dragma, leaving Valka to ride in the back with the corpse.

A lonely dog howls mournfully in the distance.

As the wagon rolls away, Valka takes one last look at Kathleen’s statue.

Blood is running down from its eyes.

                                               ***

A week later, Crispin attends Abigail Stone’s funeral. He is surprised to see Valka dressed smartly, paying her respects to Abigail’s relatives.

Valka gives him a tantalizing smile. “Well, if it isn’t the operations moral center.”

“Are you scouting? Abigail Stone was a co-worker. She was a dedicated nurse and a good mother. She’s embalmed, so she’s ineligible for study.”

“Hear about any fresh meat?”

“A fisherman was just brought in. He got in his cups, took his boat out for a night of relaxing fishing, passed out, and drowned after he rolled out of it.”

“I’ll get the location of his grave.”

Crispin grimaces. “Doesn’t this bother you?”

“The end justifies the means, Doc. I’m doing this for you.”

“No. You’re doing it for the twenty-five dollars I’m going to give Olini.”

“Twenty-five? He told us you only give him fifteen.”

“You’ll have to take that up with him.”

“I will. You might be attending his funeral next.”

“So, you don’t find this…unsavory?”

Valka frowns. “Why? ‘Cause I’m a weak-kneed woman? You got a better job for me, Doc?”

Crispin backs away. “No.”

Valka winks at him. “Shame. I was thinkin’ we could make some interestin’ kids together.”

                                               ***

Dragma watches Sigma finish his second bottle of whiskey.

“You’ve been hitting that stuff pretty hard lately.”

“I can’t get his face outta my head.”

“Who?”

“Jamison Jackson. I still see his face, all twisted up, like he’s screamin at me.”

“Pshaw.”

A knock on the door draws his attention.

Circe Kelly stands at the door, holding a fresh bottle of whiskey.

“Ah, reinforcements. Sweet dreams, Sigma.”

“…But…”

“Go to your room, brother. Circe and me need privacy.”

Thirty-five-year-old Circe Kelly is a lush with two young children who need a father. Hoping to land Dragma, she told him she owns a successful dress shop. In turn, Dragma lied to Circe, telling her he is a carpenter with a growing business.

Circe quickly drinks herself into a stupor. The liquor loosens her tongue, and she admits she is destitute.

Dragma had planned to use Circe’s money as his own. Her sudden admission gives Dragma a profitable idea.

Circe passes out at the table. Thinking about the twenty-five dollars her body will fetch, Dragma wraps his arm around her neck, twisting it until he hears it break.

Sigma tosses in his sleep in the next room, moaning as his mind conjures up Jamison Jackson’s distorted face.

                                               ***

Dragma bursts through his door in the morning, shaking him awake.

“We’ve got a fresh one for Dr. Green.”

“Where’s he buried?”

“She’s fresh. She’s in the living room.”

“So now they’re deliverin’ themselves to us?” Sigma asks.

“We were drinking, and she had a fit. Get the wagon ready. I’ll bag her.”

“What about Valka?”

“What about her?”

                                                          ***

Valka scratches her head at the sight of Sigma and Simple Sam Sullivan dancing merrily down the darkened street.

“Is there some sort of diabolical plan underfoot here, Dragma?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Simple Sam is the village idiot. Why bring him back to your place?”

“Sigma needs a friend.”

“I thought you were his friend.”

“I’m his brother.”

“Can’t stand the thought of bein’ both, eh?”

Sigma is so drunk he cannot put his key into the lock. Valka lights a match to help him see.

Club-footed Simple Sam cannot read, begs for a living, and does not handle alcohol well. The two men dance around the Olini’s ramshackle cottage like carefree children, draining the liquor supply.

“I’m tuckered out,” Valka announces. I don’t wanna walk the streets alone when I’m legless. Since Sigma’s probably gonna sleep where he falls, I’ll use his bed tonight. Don’t you animals get any ideas about takin’ advantage while I’m nappin’. I’m a light sleeper.”

                                               ***

Simple Sam wakes to find Dragma’s hands around his throat. Sigma stirs, disturbed by Simple Sam’s gagging for air.

“What are you doin’?”

“Making money. Get over here and sit on his chest while I choke him out.”

Sigma’s weight on Simple Sam’s chest and Dragma’s death grip hasten Simple Sam’s demise.

Yawning, Valka stumbles into the room.

“What’s all the noise? What are you rowdies up to?”

Her eyes bulge at the sight of the two men still in the act of killing Simple Sam.

“Stop that! He’s your friend!”

“More bodies, more money,” Dragma explains.

“We’re resurrectionists, not murderers!”

Covering Simple Sam, Dragma calmly says, “Let’s sit down and talk about that. I see the way you look at Doc Green. You love him. I think with a little push, he’ll tell you he loves you, too. And you know what can convince him to stroll down the aisle? Money. That and the promise that you’ll be getting out of the business.”

“Imagine me, a proper lady!”

“Let’s drink to it!”

                                               ***

The following night, Sigma pulls the wagon into the hospital’s alley.

Crispin notices Sigma’s dejected expression and pallid color as he brings the first body into the hospital.

Crispin uncovers a woman’s corpse. He collapses to the floor, wailing.

“Valka! Why her! What happened to her?”

“Our horse got jumpy and kicked her in the head.”

“The handprints on her throat say otherwise.”

Crispin strikes a match, holding it under Valka’s nose, hoping she’s still breathing.

“Don’t grieve, Doc. She would never have fit into your world.”

“That was up to us to decide.”

                                               ***

Sigma remains sullen the next day and into the night, a clear sign to Dragma that his brother is troubled.

The wagon squeaks as it ambles down the road.

“You really need to lay off the barleycorn.”

“I can’t do this anymore, Sigma. Not after Valka.”

“Get your head right. She was gonna turn us in.”

Dragma puts several gold coins in the watchman’s hand. He motions for more.

“Where’s the pretty miss?” he asks.

“Retired,” Dragma replies.

“Who is it tonight then, a schoolboy, a war hero, a priest?” Sigma asks, his voice on edge as the wagon enters the cemetery.

“Lady Elsa Laughton, a lady of means. Dropped dead at a cotillion.”

Elsa Laughton’s coffin is unlike the wooden ones they have broken into. It is brass, and Lady Laughton’s remains are secured by a large lock.

“Lucky for us, there isn’t a lock I can’t pick,” Dragma brags.

Dragma assaults the lock with a pickaxe until it breaks.

Dressed in an expensive white silk gown, Elsa has the lithe figure she earned from her dancing background as a young woman, a dimpled chin, and a turned-up nose that gives her a pert, impish appearance.

“Yep. A real lady,” Dragma comments.

Sigma’s eyes fix on the scratch marks inside the lid. Shaking, he picks up Elsa’s hand, noting her broken nails.

“…She’s still warm…”

“All the merrier for Doc Green. Lady Laughton was buried quickly because they feared she might have the fever, and they didn’t want it to spread.”

“Those scratches on the lid... She tried to get out.”

“You’re loopy. She’s dead… Hey, look at that ring she’s wearing. It’s the size of a cockroach.”

“Funny you’d pick a bug to compare it to,” Sigma replies.

The diamond ring glitters in the torchlight.

“I’m all for having that,” Dragma says.

Dragma grunts as he pulls on the ring.

“It won’t budge.”

“Then that’s a sign. Leave it be.”

“Profit, Sigma, profit.”

Dragma pulls a jackknife from his pocket, slicing into the corpse’s finger.

Blood spurts from the severed finger as Dragma cuts it off.

Lady Laughton’s corpse sits up, screaming.

“SHE’S ALIVE!” Sigma shouts, scrambling out of the grave.

Dropping the finger, Dragma follows his brother’s swift retreat.

                                               ***

The next morning, Dragma barely has time to open the door when a horde of police officers storms into their cottage.

As he and Sigma are being put in irons, veteran Detective Silas Byrne wryly says, “Made a real mess of things last night, didn’t ya? No amount of money was gonna keep yer friend the watchman quiet, not after you woke Lady Laughton from her coma.”

“Then she should thank us for rescuing her,” Dragma insists.

 “Well, you shouldn’t have murdered Doc Green’s girl, either. He’s turned state’s evidence against ya. Yer in double trouble, you disgustin’ graverobbers.”

                                               ***

Detective Byrne prods Sigma. “How many?”

“I stopped counting after a hundred and twenty, and that was two years ago.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“You seem like a nice fellow. How about you help us out, and we’ll help you out?”

The corpses of Jamison, Kathleen, Simple Sam, Circe, and Valka appear behind Detective Byrne, staring at Sigma.

                                               ***

Sigma is escorted to the outskirts of Camden in the early morning hours of the following day. As a reward for cooperating, he is given a bottle of whiskey. He finishes it during his travels, then follows the spirits of his victims down the road and is never seen again.

The night before his execution, a band of vigilantes breaks into Dragma’s cell. They sever his hands and brand his forehead with the words “For Robbing the Dead.” Despite his injuries, Dragma is promptly hanged at dawn.

Dr. Crispin Green and his students dissect his body.