“Fresh one?” Astrid called, just getting out of the sterilisation chamber, having clocked in for her morning shift. “At this hour?”
Unice sighed, shaking her head over the long cart she careened over the cement floor. One of its wheels squeaked; like it had a whole pack of live chipmunks squeezed between the axle and the peg, it squeaked. It was a rule of life, that; one wheel was always less than par on these things, scraping along the floor in the off direction of a goggly-eye while the others rolled on. Gotta keep on keepin’ on.
“Ain’t no rest, Astrid,” Unice croaked back, pushing a defiant grey strand out of her face. “Gentleman tripped on the curb at 86th at 3 am, fell ’cross the railing and down five feet, split his bloody head open.”
Astrid scrunched her nose.
“How the heck did he manage?”
“Drunk, I recon.”
“Nasty one, that curb,” she said. “They oughta mark it better with a proper sign.”
“Ye,” Unice snorted. “We ain’t got no power drill to fix him up any time soon. They scooped up the mush ‘round the poor bloke, the ones fixing the road, that is. Said they ‘probs got the most important parts’. As if that’d be some sort of heroic act or somethin’.”
She rolled her eyes, sighing, and Astrid chuckled, coming over to tap the metal tank with her knuckles. It greeted her with the deep-voiced ringing of an oversized tuna-can.
“He a keeper?”
“Oh, he’ll be a regular now, keepin’ cool forever, ya know it.” Unice clicked her tongue. “Get this. Family name’s McClarance.”
Astrid drew a whistle.
“McClarance, you say?”
“I do say,” Unice retorted. “Bet ya that curb be fixed ‘fore ‘morrow now.”
Astrid smirked back.
“I’d be a fool to go against,” she said. “Love me a conversation with him, then.”
“Ask about them politics?”
“He oughta know something we ain’t.” Astrid bent over to try and get a glimpse of the mushed skull inside of the frosted glass. “You know it; dead men tell the best tales.”
“Hmm, sob stories, mostly,” Unice scoffed. “Oh, hand’s off, lassie!” Unice whisked her off the glass slit of the tank while sliding her card up from her pocket. “Poor bloke’s just been cyroed. You ain’t got some others of them sacks on your list to go through today?”
“Well…” Astrid stopped in her tracks, ogling her list of best before’s, as the door to corridor C slid open. Plenty of them sacks an’ blokes on there, she just didn’t feel like it.
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“Go get on it, then,” Unice berated her. “Breakfast at nine, ya know. I won’t have you slaunterin’ in when everyone’s break’s already done.”
“Oh, as if I ever,” Astrid shot back.
“Get there in time, you mean? I reckon some time’s gotta be the first. Maybe it’s your lucky day.”
“Ah, shoo,” Astrid spat, waving her through the door. “Fancy peps arrive later. It’s so you’ll have time to miss me.” That got another of her famous eye-rolls. “Any coffee served yet?”
“Na-ah, don’t even.”
“Unice, what?” Astrid cried. “No perks on a weekend?”
“You know where the machine is.”
“Yeah, by its smell.”
“Do your work an’ we’ll see about it at breakfast.”
“We’re always out at breakfast!”
“Because you’re always late, hun.” She shared an evil grin. “Luckily, you know how to use the tapper.”
“My love, my life,” Astrid groaned, gesticulating. ”Why do you punish me so?”
“Oh, hush!” Unice chuckled back at her. “It’s way too early for yar full show.”
She realigned the electronic cart to be off with her gentleman.
“You’re my best wife, y’know!”
She got a disinterested wave back, letting her know Unice had checked out of their game.
“I LOVE YOU!” Astrid howled at her. It echoed out in the vast corridors.
Before the door slid shut, she saw how it cracked Unice up. Astrid could tell, even if only spotting the madam's backside. They’d worked side by side in this graveyard long enough.
The names on her list belonged to the ones who’s time in the popsicle aisle had come to an end, either by terms of resurrection for cures or surgeries, or by those nasty due bills and hard-declined bank accounts. When no one who’d ever known them was left to care for the dead or dying, well, then why the hell would their relatives continue to provide for their permafrosted ancestor?
Oh, so great great great nana wanted a brand new young body to rekindle her love for mountain climbing? Why of course. Lemme grab the check for the rest of my life splicing for your two hundred years or something rest, you crinkly old vampire. That was, given they even had some relatives left at this point.
It certainly complicated wills and inheritances, taxes, well, every part of deciding whether or not someone was dead enough to be buried. Hence, Astrid got her some good questions at hand for any McClarance she could find. They were all the same in that family; every single one got themselves involved in the politics somehow, almost like there was some good old nepo at play. One could wonder, at least. One could raise a brow and chuckle at a poor bloke bangin’ his head too hard against the pavement like Lady Death didn’t care enough about his importance to not trip him up in his step. They were small-scale tyrants, but with the complicated global system of government, you had better luck holding a grudge against your pesky locals rather than throwing pebbles at Goliath.
Anyways, the only solution they’d come to in the matter was to draw the line at fifty years in the tank. After that, every cryobusiness had to shake their corpses awake for a good old talking to, and track down them potential relatives to make a new deal. Those who’re dead-dead—like, really dead in the tank, Mr McClarance dead—well, they better hope they got a live guardian out there to do their talking for them.
Either way, things weren’t quite there yet, what with transferring entire personalities and brains to new hosts. Not in the slightest, in fact, probably wouldn’t be any time soon either, but if nana wanted a brand new beach bod for summer o’ 2500, who were CryoCask™ to say no to nana’s great great great initiation check? Long as it ain’t bouncing, CryoCask™ would gladly stick you in their freezer.
One’s oughta have some faith in that bright future, eh?