The Decaying Dream of America: I Assemble Corpses and Confront Madness

The underground parking lot of the Emerald Dream City Forensic Office is always a few degrees cooler than the ground temperature.

The air was filled with the pungent smell of disinfectant and formaldehyde, cold and constant, as if it had seeped into the walls.

Lin Zheng locked the office door and walked along the empty corridor to his parking space.

He had taken off his white coat and was hanging it on the office rack. He was now wearing a dark gray work jacket, jeans, and boots.

The slight marks left by wearing a mask for a long time still remained on her face, and her eyes showed a hint of weariness that she couldn't hide.

Once inside the car, the screen lit up, displaying an internal short number.

Swipe to answer the call.

"Lin." The voice on the other end of the phone was urgent, speaking rapidly, with background noise. "There's an emergency mission. A 'cargo' is dying. It's in that abandoned warehouse in the old industrial area of ​​Nancheng. I'll send you the address. Pneumonia, COVID-19 complications. This job is tough. You need to get there right away."

There was no greeting, no explanation, and not even time for him to respond.

As soon as he finished speaking, a busy tone came from the receiver.

Immediately afterwards, my phone vibrated, and a text message with location coordinates popped up.

Lin Zheng looked at the address on the screen, then glanced out the car window at the dense darkness of the parking lot exit.

He put down his phone and gripped the steering wheel again.

The car slowly backed out of the parking space, the tires making a slight friction sound as they rolled over the concrete surface.

The car headlights pierced the darkness, illuminating the empty passage ahead.

He drove out of the parking lot and merged into the sparse traffic of the city night.

On the navigation screen, the green route extends southwards.

He was familiar with that area. It was an old industrial zone, where most of the buildings from the 1960s and 70s had been abandoned, leaving only rusted steel frames and broken windows of the tall factory buildings.

After getting out of the car, he first opened the toolbox.

The box contained various items arranged in layers: sealed bags, labels, sampling swabs, alcohol wipes, thermometer, blood pressure monitor, record board, pen, high-powered flashlight, spare batteries, and several sets of unopened personal protective equipment.

Lin Zheng took out a set of protective gear.

He first put on the N95 mask and carefully pressed the nose clip to ensure a proper fit.

Then put on the first layer of medical rubber gloves and pull them up to your wrist.

Next, put on a disposable protective suit, zip it up from bottom to top, cover your hair with the cap, and tighten the cuffs outside the gloves.

Finally, put on the goggles and adjust the elastic band.

The entire set of movements was fluid, skillful, and without any unnecessary actions.

Once fully dressed, he became a standard, white protective figure devoid of any personal characteristics.

Then I turned on the high-powered flashlight, and the beam of light cut through the darkness, shining into the depths of the warehouse.

Dust particles danced in the beam of light.

The scene inside came into view.

Several layers of crumpled, stained cardboard were laid on the ground.

A person is lying on the cardboard.

Several empty mineral water bottles, a flattened instant noodle bowl, and several painkiller tablets were scattered around the cardboard.

He's a man, looks to be in his forties, or possibly older; a difficult life and illness can accelerate aging.

His hair was gray and messy, and his face was covered with thick grime and stubble, obscuring his original skin color.

He was wrapped in a dirty blanket whose color was unrecognizable and whose edges were worn and pilled.

He lay on his back, his chest heaving violently.

Each inhalation was accompanied by a wet, sharp hissing sound, as if the air was tearing apart some fragile structure in his lungs.

Each exhale turned into a low, intermittent gurgling sound, with phlegm churning deep inside.

The sweet, fishy smell in the air became stronger here.

He squatted down next to the cardboard again and turned on the powerful flashlight.

The beam of light fell on the man's face.

The man's eyelids twitched a few times, but he didn't open them.

His face appeared ashen, almost plaster-like, in the bright light; his lips were deep purple, and there were dried, dark red marks at the corners of his mouth.

His eyes were sunken, surrounded by bluish-black shadows.

Lin Zheng reached out and gently pressed two fingers on the side of the man's neck.

Skin feels cold and damp.

The arterial pulse is weak, fast, and irregular, sometimes rapid, and sometimes almost imperceptible.

The man seemed startled by the touch, letting out a muffled groan.

His cloudy eyes suddenly opened a crack, unfocused, staring straight at a rusty steel beam covered with cobwebs above his head.

Lin Zheng withdrew his hand.

The man on the cardboard suddenly jerked.

That wasn't ordinary movement; it was a violent, uncontrollable spasm that erupted from the chest cavity throughout the entire body.

The man's back arched, his shoulders hunched, his neck tilted back, and a series of sickening coughs, choked with phlegm and blood clots, came from deep in his throat.

The cough was initially suppressed and muffled in the chest, but then it broke through the obstruction and became loud and broken.

The man instinctively raised his hand and covered his mouth.

This action lasted for less than two seconds.

Dark red liquid gushed out from between his fingers.

It didn't drip, it gushed out.

The viscous, dark liquid, which reflected an eerie luster under the bright flashlight, instantly stained his fingers, palms, and wrists red.

The liquid flowed down his arm, dripping and splashing onto the crumpled cardboard beneath him.

Thud, thud, a muffled sound.

The cardboard absorbed the water, and dark red wet stains spread at a visible speed.

Lin Zheng's gaze fell on the liquid.

The color is very deep, almost brownish-red, but at the edges of light, it reveals an extremely unsettling, diluted pinkish hue.

That's not the color healthy blood should have.

It was a highly oxidized mixture of pus, tissue fragments, and possible pulmonary exudate.

The man's cough wouldn't stop.

His hand, which had been covering his mouth, fell limply to his side, and he curled up on his side. His body was burning with fever; he was like a shrimp thrown into boiling water.

Each violent, tearing cough was accompanied by a spurt of more dark red liquid.

The liquid spilled onto the ground, onto the cardboard, and even splashed onto an empty mineral water bottle next to it.

Coughing echoed in the empty warehouse, mixed with wet, gurgling sounds of flowing liquid, and the man's painful, gasping breaths squeezed from deep in his throat.

Lin Zheng looked at it.

The man coughed for almost a minute.

The intense spasms depleted his already dwindling strength.

The cough gradually weakened, turning into intermittent, weak choking coughs, each time only bringing out a small amount of pink foam.

He slumped onto the cardboard, his chest still heaving rapidly, and a horrible gurgling, sloshing sound coming from his throat.

The cardboard beneath him was soaked through, its color dark, and the edges were still slowly getting wet.

Lin Zheng stood up.

He took two steps back and glanced around the warehouse.

The pile of debris outside the tarpaulin remained silent, and dust slowly settled in the beam of light.

In the distance, through the metal walls of the warehouse, came the dull rumble of heavy trucks passing by on the nearby road, along with intermittent snippets of jazz music playing on the radio, seemingly coming from nowhere.

The saxophone's languid, hoarse sound seemed out of place in the warehouse setting.

Lin Zheng looked down at his gloved right hand.

On the back of my hand, near the cuff of my protective suit around my wrist, a small drop of pink liquid had been splashed on it. It was half-dry and had formed a small, sticky dot.

He walked back to the toolbox and took out a small bottle of 75% alcohol spray and a disinfectant wipe.

He first sprayed alcohol on the stain twice, then carefully wiped it with a wet wipe.

The wet wipe left a faint pink mark, but the stain was mostly removed.

He threw the used wet wipes into the yellow medical waste bag he had brought.

The man was in a semi-conscious state with his eyes closed, occasionally letting out unconscious groans when touched.

Lin Zheng was waiting. His job was not to rescue but to collect corpses. He was like a scavenging vulture, circling in the sky waiting for the food that death would provide.

The man's eyelids twitched, and he opened them again.

This time, his eyes seemed a little clearer.

His eyes slowly moved, finally settling on Lin Zheng, who was squatting to the side, completely wrapped in a white protective suit.

The man's gaze lingered on Lin Zheng's face for a few seconds before moving down to his gloved hands.

There was no fear in his eyes, no expectation of help, and not even much pain.

There was only a bottomless, utterly exhausted weariness, and... a burning, almost greedy desire.

The man's lips moved.

His chapped, blood-scabbed lips parted, trying to make a sound.

At first it was just the sound of air friction, then it turned into hoarse, broken syllables.

He struggled to raise his hand, which was covered in dark red blood and clear mucus.

My arms were trembling violently, and my muscles seemed unable to provide enough strength.

But he still stubbornly raised his hand, little by little.

With her palm open and fingers bent, she slowly and tremblingly reached out toward Lin Zheng, toward the cuff of his protective suit.

Lin Zheng did not move.

He watched the hand approach.

The veins on the back of his hand were bulging, and his skin had turned bluish-purple due to the loss of temperature. His fingernails were filled with black grime.

Thick liquid was still dripping from his fingertips.

The hand eventually touched the fabric of Lin Zheng's protective suit at his wrist.

It's cold.

The sticky feeling could be clearly felt even through rubber gloves and protective clothing.

It was a kind of coldness that didn't belong to the living, a coldness that seeped into the very bones.

The man's fingers tightened, gripping Lin Zheng's sleeve.

The force was unexpectedly great; his knuckles turned white from the exertion and trembled slightly.

His eyes were fixed on Lin Zheng's eyes behind his goggles, and his lips moved even faster.

The hoarse voice finally came together, though weak, each word carrying an almost obsessive plea.

"……Needle……"

He was panting, and the gurgling sound in his throat interfered with his speech.

"Give me... another injection..."

"Please...please..."

His fingers clenched tighter, as if it were the last straw in his life.

"Just one more injection... just one more... to make me feel... a little better..."

"Just one injection... just one injection..."

His gaze wavered for a moment, then quickly focused, locking onto Lin Zheng. His pupils reflected the pale, dim light filtering through the cracks in the warehouse roof, as well as the blurry reflection of Lin Zheng's white protective suit.

Lin Zheng looked at him.

The mask blocked out his breathing, and the goggles concealed the subtle changes in his eyes.

A few seconds later.

He reached out his other hand and covered the man's hand that was gripping his sleeve.

She didn't struggle forcefully, but used steady strength to pry open the man's tightly clenched fingers one by one.

The man's fingers resisted for a moment, then limply released their grip.

His hand fell limply to the blood-soaked cardboard, making a soft thud.

Lin Zheng withdrew his hand.

He took out a new disinfectant wipe from the toolbox.

He first carefully wiped the cuffs where the man had just grabbed him, wiping them repeatedly until there were no more stains left on the white fabric.

Then, he took the man's drooping hand and wiped the back of his hand, palm, and between his fingers with a wet wipe.

The wet wipe quickly became stained with red and black dirt.

The man didn't react. His hands were at Lin Zheng's mercy, his eyes remained open, staring at a point in the void above him, his mouth unconsciously and weakly repeating, "Needle... one needle..."

After wiping, Lin Zheng threw the dirty wet wipe into a medical waste bag.

There were some noises coming from the warehouse: the clanging of metal, deep commands, and the occasional faint coughs and groans from the man.

After a while, his colleague arrived with a body bag, and Lin Zheng went forward to help put the man inside, even though he was not completely dead.

The face inside the body bag was ashen and lifeless.

Lin Zheng returned to his car.

He opened the trunk.

Inside is a dedicated, lockable medical waste container.

He opened the box and put in the yellow medical waste bag containing used gloves, wet wipes, and other items. Then he put in another small bag from the toolbox, which contained packaging for potentially contaminated sampling tools.

Lock the storage box securely.

Then he began to remove his protective gear.

The order is the reverse of when wearing them.

First, remove the goggles, wipe the inside and outside of the lenses with alcohol wipes, and put them in a clean plastic bag.

Then unzip the protective suit, carefully roll it up from the inside out, take it off, and put it into a plastic bag.

Next, remove the outer gloves, turn them inside out, and throw them into another small waste bag.

Finally, remove the mask and put it in the waste bag.

He was still wearing his own clothes underneath.

A night breeze blew by, bringing a chill that penetrated the thin work jacket.

He took a small bottle of hand sanitizer from the car and squeezed a large amount into his palm.

He carefully rubbed every part of his hands: palms, backs of hands, between fingers, fingertips, around nails, wrists, and even up to his forearms.

I rubbed my hands for at least a minute until the hand sanitizer had completely evaporated, leaving my skin feeling slightly tight and dry, as well as cool from the residual alcohol.

After doing all this, he got into the driver's seat and closed the car door.

Inside the relatively enclosed space of the carriage, there seemed to be a faint, lingering smell of dust and chemicals brought in from outside.

He started the car.

But they didn't drive away immediately.

He sat quietly for a few minutes, his hands on the steering wheel, his gaze passing through the windshield to the mottled corrugated iron walls of the warehouse across the street.

The streetlights illuminated half of the wall, making it bright and half dark.

The wall was covered with unrecognizable symbols and swear words in spray paint.

His face was expressionless.

There was no disgust, no pity, no weariness, and no relief.

What he had just completed was just a routine, repetitive task.

Drive out of the industrial area and back onto the relatively brighter city streets.

Traffic was still sparse, but the streetlights were much brighter. Most of the shops along the road were closed, with only the signs of 24-hour convenience stores and fast food restaurants still shining brightly. There were countless tents haphazardly set up along the street, and homeless people were making fires to keep warm.

Lin Zheng's car drove across a bridge spanning a dark river.

The river flows slowly beneath the bridge, its surface reflecting the shimmering neon lights of the high-rise buildings on both banks. The vibrant colors—red, blue, purple, and green—twist, break, and recombine in the ripples, creating a hazy and illusory speckle of light.

Lin Zheng's gaze swept across the river surface before returning to the road ahead.

The car radio was on the whole time, but the volume was turned down very low.

Just then, a news segment finished airing, and music started playing.

It is a currently popular, upbeat love song.

A young female singer sings lyrics about summer encounters, heart-fluttering moments, and eternal vows in her sweet and clear voice.

The drumbeats are clear, and the melody is catchy.

The singing flowed through the carriage, filling the silence except for the sound of the engine.

Lin Zheng listened.

The familiar smell of disinfectant wafted over again, faintly.

The tires made a dull thud as they went over the speed bump.

He found his usual parking space, reversed into the space, pulled the handbrake, and turned off the engine.

The engine vibrations and the music on the radio disappeared together.

The carriage fell silent.

Only the low hum of the parking lot's ventilation system could be heard from afar.

Footsteps echoed again in the empty parking lot, rhythmic, steady, and gradually fading into the distance.

The elevator doors opened, and he stepped inside.

The metal door slowly closed, shutting his figure inside, along with the dim light and the ever-present smell of disinfectant in the parking lot.

The floor numbers started changing.

Underground office.

Another night shift has begun.

One of the numbers on the form changed from "pending" to "completed".

The city continues to breathe, sleep, or awaken outside the window.

The next number is already waiting in some unknown corner to be filled in, processed, and archived.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened.

The corridor was lit by stark white fluorescent lights and was completely silent.

Lin Zheng walked out, his footsteps absorbed by the thick carpet.

He walked toward the familiar door marked "Assistant's Office".

Insert the key into the lock and turn it.

Click.

The door opened.

Inside were neat desks, filing cabinets, and a crisp, starched white lab coat hanging on a coat rack.

The night is still long.

Or rather, it's only just begun.

He turned around and gently closed the door.

Temporarily isolating the world outside the door.

Now, all that remains is this room, these objects, and preparations for the next round of work.

An ordinary night.

An ordinary corpse collector.

A typical night shift assignment.

That's it.