UNDEAD

Charlee's consciousness drifted through a desolate, gray expanse, like a lost soul trapped in a perpetual twilight. The air was heavy with the stench of decay and death. She knew she was gone, her life extinguished by the bullet that had ripped through her skull.

As she floated, a chilling scream echoed through the void, making her skin crawl. The sound was her own voice, but it was distorted, like a recording played backwards. Charlee's heart, or what was left of it, racing with terror.

Suddenly, the grayness coalesced into a gathering of women who were identical to her in every way, except for varying shapes and heights. Their eyes, once warm and familiar, now burned with an otherworldly intensity. Charlee's mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother stood among them, their faces twisted into grotesque grins.

The women began to move toward Charlee, their movements stiff and jerky, like puppets on strings. They spoke in unison, their voices a chilling chant that seemed to freeze Charlee's very soul. The words were indistinguishable at first, but as the chant grew louder, Charlee made out the phrase: "Wake up!"

Charlee's mind recoiled in horror. Wake up? She was dead! What was the point of waking up? The women's faces seemed to blur and distort, their eyes burning with an evil intensity. Charlee felt a presence behind her, a cold breath on the back of her neck.

She tried to turn, but her body felt heavy, unresponsive. The presence wrapped icy fingers around her wrist, pulling her away from the women. Charlee stumbled, her feet dragging across a rough, gravelly surface.

As she was pulled through a doorway, the darkness seemed to swallow her whole. The women's chant faded into the distance, replaced by an oppressive silence. And then, a faint whisper seemed to caress her ear: "Wake up."

—_—

Lorraine "Lori" Falconeri, a towering, dark-skinned cowgirl from Amarillo, Texas, had never been a fan of Charlee Tyre's music. Lori's heart belonged to country, rock and roll, heavy metal, and gospel – the sounds of her childhood. At six foot two, she was an imposing figure, but her true grit lay in her work as a mortician's assistant at St. Francis Morgue in New York City.

Lori took pride in her job, transforming the gruesome into the serene, preparing the departed for their final journey. Though she loved her work, her heart still yearned for the wide-open spaces of Texas. Marriage to Teddy Falconeri, a New Yorker, had taken her away from her roots, but Lori's mother had taught her that a wife's place was beside her husband.

Lori's routine had been feeling stale lately, but the arrival of Charlee Tyre's body at the morgue sparked a flicker of excitement. The rapper's sudden death had sent shockwaves through the nation, and Lori couldn't help but feel a thrill at the prospect of working on the famous singer's body. As she began to prepare Charlee for viewing, Lori's skilled hands moved with precision.

Lori's laughter echoed through the morgue, a jarring sound that seemed to clash with the somber atmosphere. The temporary resting place for the dead was no place for merriment, but Lori couldn't help herself. She was laughing at the absurdity of it all – at the expense of her ex-fiancé, Adam Michaelson.

That self-absorbed, wannabe celebrity driver had left her for the bright lights of Los Blancos, only to end up chauffeuring around entitled stars like Madam Yvonne Toulouse. And to think, he'd had the nerve to brag to her about attending a celebrity party where he'd seen Charlee Tyre. "You'll never see her in the flesh," he'd sneered.

Lori's eyes sparkled with mischief as she gazed at Charlee's lifeless body. "Well, well, well," she whispered, snapping a few photos with her phone. "Look who's eating their words now, Adam?" She couldn't wait to rub it in his face the next time they spoke. "Take that, Adam, you weasel."

Lori's grin faltered for a moment as she gazed at Charlee's still form. It was a shame, really – the girl had been talented, and her music had brought joy to so many. But Lori's satisfaction at one-upping her ex-fiancé won out in the end. After all, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. And as for Adam Michaelson? He could go to hell for all she cared.

As she worked on preparing Charlee's body, Lori couldn't help but think that Adam's parting shot – "You'll see Charlee Tyre when hell freezes over" – had been eerily prophetic. The devil must be shivering, indeed.

—_—

As I slowly came to, the first thing that hit me was the overpowering smell of disinfectant and the faint tang of formaldehyde. The air was thick and heavy, making my head spin. I hated hospitals, but somehow, I'd been saved. A wry smile spread across my face. "Take that, family curse," I thought to myself, still trying to shake off the haze.

But as I opened my eyes, a searing pain shot through my head, making me wince. The fluorescent lights above flickered and hummed, casting an eerie glow over the rows of stainless steel examination tables. I was surrounded by the cold, sterile equipment of a morgue. My heart sank as I realized I wasn't in a hospital at all.

"Jesus Christ!" I croaked, my voice hoarse from disuse. I sprang off the examination table, my sudden movement startling the dark-haired giant standing over me. She was dressed in a lab coat, her eyes wide with surprise as she stumbled backward, her phone still clutched in her hand. She had been taking pictures of me, I realized with a jolt of indignation.

"What is wrong with you, lady?" I thought, my sass kicking in. "Don't you have any respect for the dead? I mean, I know I'm a celebrity and all, but come on!"

The woman's eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, we just stared at each other. The only sound was the soft hum of the refrigeration units in the background, where the other...bodies were stored. I felt a shiver run down my spine as I realized I had been mere inches from being stored alongside them.

"What the...?" I trailed off, my mind reeling with questions. Who was this woman? And why was I...alive? How was I even breathing? I should be dead. I remembered the gunshot, the pain, the feeling of my life slipping away. But here I was, standing in a morgue, facing a stranger who seemed just as shocked to see me as I was to see her.

"What the hell, what the fuck, oh holy mother of God!" the woman cried, her voice trembling with fear. "You were supposed to be dead!"

The woman's screams echoed through the morgue as she stumbled backward, her phone slipping from her grasp and clattering to the tiled floor. I watched as she turned and fled, leaving me alone among the cadavers.

I glanced down at my nude body and quickly grabbed the lab coat the woman had been wearing. I slipped it on, feeling a sense of relief that I was no longer exposed. I also felt a twinge of satisfaction that the woman hadn't been a paparazzo.

I picked up the discarded phone and opened the camera app. The images showed my body, but something was off. The bullet wounds were closed, with no scars or stitching visible. "Probably plastic surgery," I muttered in disgust.

But how was that possible? And why would someone go to such great lengths to conceal the truth?

The phone was locked, so I dropped it and rushed out of the morgue. My bare feet slapped against the cold floor as I emerged into the bright lights of the hospital corridor.

I needed to get back to California, but I knew it wouldn't be easy. I was supposed to be dead, and I had no idea who had orchestrated this elaborate ruse or why.

As I walked, I felt a pang of longing for my mansion in Waverly Hills, Los Blancos. I missed my bed, my routine, and my life.

Something was off. I could sense it. The earth seemed to be vibrating beneath my feet, and the air around me felt oppressive, like a physical wall closing in. I felt weightless, as if I was floating above the ground. And then, everything went black.

The next thing I knew, I was crashing onto a bed, my body bouncing on the soft mattress. I sat up with a start, looking around frantically. I was in my bedroom, back in my mansion in Waverly Hills.

I screamed out loud, shocked and disoriented. But I wasn't the only one screaming. My personal assistant, was standing in the doorway, his eyes wide with terror.

I puked.