Hospital floor C

I have been working as a crematorium operator for 8 years, coming up in July. I stumbled into this profession accidentally when working at a hospital as a patient transporter. My job then was just to take patients from point A to point B. 

Being a patient transporter is not a bad gig. Most people come along just fine; however, some don’t. The elderly who have been burdened by memory loss usually take some convincing. But the worst are the mentally unstable patients. When these people pop up from time to time, they can throw the entire schedule off. 

I’m a pretty tall and well-built guy. No six pack, but I regularly go to the gym and try to eat right. I was often called in when there were rowdy patients who needed transporting, due to my physical appearance. 

I’ve spent time trying to convince a man that the doctor was not trying to put eels in his brain so he could hear his thoughts, and having to physically restrain a woman from smashing a flower pot into the back of someone's head. I’ve dealt with the sweetest people and people who do nothing except burden the modern world with their existence.

After two years of working this job, my boss approached me and asked if I would be interested in a special type of promotion. I, of course, told him that I was very interested.

We scheduled a meeting to discuss what the promotion would entail. Things like job duties, benefits, and most importantly, pay.

He started by telling me what my assignments would be. I’d be transporting the bodies of deceased patients down to the cremator, simple. At certain hospitals this would have already been one of my expected assignments. However, at my work, only specialized personnel could move the deceased. 

The rest of the staff calls them the reapers. When a patient has passed away, they are quick to appear, take the body, and leave. That is pretty much the only time they are seen. 

He then told me basic stuff: cover them so you don’t traumatize a kid by showing them a dead person, take the body to an elevator down to the basement yada, yada, yada.

What was very interesting was the pay. It was sky fucking high. I would do anything for that type of pay. And oh, I did.

I accepted my new position. Better pay, I don’t have to argue with wackos, plus I only appear when I have to. That sounds fucking great.

When I returned to work the next morning, there was a dead body that had to be taken care of.

I got called in, and after the family had said their goodbyes, I began pushing the movable bed towards the elevator. The dead body that was once Thomas Neil weighed around 90 kg and was about 185 cm tall. 

This was relevant information as I had come to learn that a lot of cremators are very automated today. You simply put in, name, weight, height, and gender, and the machine does the rest.

I scanned my brand new tag and pushed the once-forbidden C button.

The elevator slowly made its way down, and the doors slid open. The rumors that the other hospital staff had made up about the reapers' C floor could not have been further from the truth.

There were no bunkbeds that they all slept in, nor were there any coffins for anyone to sleep in. It looked like a normal break room, people sipping coffee and chatting.

An old lady greeted me. With a friendly tone, she said, “Okay, follow me, I’ll show you the ropes”.

It was weird seeing how nonchalant she was about the entire thing. I was transporting someone who was once living and breathing, full of life and dreams, but the lady didn’t seem to mind. She was busy talking about how the free coffee was quite shit, and that I should bring my own, or swearing that she forgot about her grandkids birthday.

We eventually reached a big double door.  She opened it and gestured for me to go inside. The room we walked into was gigantic. The room didn’t make sense. The ceiling was too high not to be visible from above ground. The ground was uneven and hard to walk on.

The uneven terrain made the body's arms fly all over the place, like it was having a seizure. I’m a bit ashamed to say that I still laugh about that to this day.

In the middle of the room, there was a pit. Holy shit, did the pit smell. It reminded me of that one time I forgot a few steaks in my car in the middle of summer. I looked down into it and saw no bottom. However, there were rhythmic waves of air coming out of it hitting my face.

The old lady gave me strict orders on how I should align the bed next to the pit. I followed suit.

She then showed me a lever on the side of the inner bedframe. When I pulled the lever two bed legs shortened, and the body rolled off down into the pit.

I stared but didn’t question anything. I was being paid too well to ask questions about this.

I saw how the body disappeared out of sight down into the pit. As we turned to walk back out, I could hear the faint sound of something smacking its lips. It sounded greasy.

The old lady, whom I later learned was named Kathy, a woman whom I now adore. She swore like a sailor and drinks like one, too. She then showed me what was next on the agenda.

I was supposed to scoop up some wood ashes, put them into a temporary urn, and label it with the guy's name. The only question I asked was what if the family does not want to cremate the body? They had it covered. You just got a doll of the body made. 

Quite impressive, honestly, they got the same weight, height, and freckles. It was the same down to the last minute detail. I’m sure they didn’t need to make them that detailed. Better safe than sorry, I guess.

I don’t hate my job. Honestly, I quite enjoy it. Easy money, the co-workers are fine, and I barely work. I still have to listen to those greasy lips smacking whenever I deliver a body, but a pair of earplugs quickly stopped that problem. The only annoying part of the job is waiting for the weepy family members to leave the body. Oh, and giving them those dust jars. Jesus Christ, you would think I handed them their death sentence.

I guess this is a type of confession. I don’t feel bad for what I do. The only time I do is when I have to move the young ones. I always make sure I have my earplugs in when I drop them off. But hey, the family still gets closure, and I get paid. 

No harm done, right?