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Her right hand slid free. Chunks of sloughed skin fell to the floor with a wet slap. Momentum carried her over the trolleys left side. She hit the white floor, droplets of blood splattering across the autopsy chamber.
Amoss movements slowed.
Margaret managed to kick her legs free. She pushed Amos off, then stood, her back against the trailer wall.
Betty leaned her right shoulder against the sink and pushed herself up with wobbling legs. Blood streaked her blue gown, the only clothing on an otherwise-naked body. The right side of her face was mostly cut away, black-and-white cheekbone blazing under red smears, bits of jellyish rot still clinging to what little skin remained.
Margaret just stared. She couldnt move a muscle. She wanted to run, to scream, but she couldnt even draw a breath.
Blood dripped from Bettys skinless fingers. She still held the scalpel in her left hand, cradled it more than gripped it, trying to keep the stainless steel steady against exposed, blood-slick muscles.
Betty smiled. Only with the left half of her face, of course, because the muscles on the right side were mostly gone.
You bish, she slurred. Lesh shee how you like it.
She shuffled forward, trying to keep her balance, bare feet leaving b.l.o.o.d.y streaks on the white floor.
The autopsy trolley was the only thing separating her from Margaret.
Betty reached down with her right hand and rolled it out of the way. She pulled her hand back, but her right pointer finger stayed behind, stuck to the trolley in a red and black mess of rotted meat and jutting bone.
Betty half-smiled again.
She stood only three feet away.
She took a small shuffle-step forward
Margaret still couldnt will her muscles to move, not even a bit. Her breath returned in a sucking gasp, then shot out in a ragged scream that sounded impossibly loud inside her suit helmet.
But not so loud that she didnt hear the gunshot.
The right side of Bettys head, the undamaged side, exploded outward in a fist-size hole that sprayed blood, brains and bone on the back wall and into the sink. She dropped like a cloth puppet.
Margaret!
Clarences voice, m.u.f.fled.
Margaret, are you okay? Did she cut you?
She turned to his voice. He wore his black biohazard suit. Gitsh and Marcus, also wearing suits, were right behind him. Clarences gloved hand held a pistol, still smoking. He knelt by her side, the gun pointed down and away from her.
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