Zombies and Drugs

The cold, in the morgue reception area, had intensified throughout the day. Sharp fingers of ice had crept in from outside, spreading out across the stone-paved floor to raise a hoarfrost on the remaining puddles of blood that arced about Lynda Prince’s head like a crimson halo. The sharp light of winter reflected off the frost, to lend an almost divine brilliance to her aspect. The day shift was long gone driven out by panic and fear to leave her alone, where she lay in a crumpled frosty heap at the foot of her desk. 'Ahaagh…’ A ragged breath sucked frigid air into Lynda’s chest, and with it came a new awareness. 'Lynda, can you hear me, child?’ The voice in her head was old and gruff and, somehow, oddly smelled of old tobacco reminding her of her grandfather.