The Corpse

The morgue wasn't really a morgue—not in the pre-outbreak sense. It was a repurposed refrigeration unit near the south wing of the refinery complex. Thick insulated walls. Locking steel doors. Cold enough to slow decay but not enough to keep the stench away.

The five body bags lay in a row on the tiled floor, each tagged, zipped tight, and labeled with the unit patches they had worn. Three from Echo Company. One from Recon. One driver. All dead less than three hours.

Shadow 6 and Shadow 8 were the last to drag the final bag inside, their boots leaving damp prints on the polished floor.

"Fuckin' heavy," Shadow 6 grunted, letting the bag slide to the ground with a thump. "This guy was built like a rhino."

Shadow 8 rolled his shoulders. "They always get heavier when they're cold. Dead weight's a bitch."