It had been hours since Dr. Smith sent the corpse's samples to the lab.
He paced restlessly back and forth, watching the second-hand tick away on the large clock mounted above the morgue doors. The silence of the room pressed in on him, broken only by the faint hum of refrigeration units and the occasional squeak of his shoes against the cold tile.
Dr. Smith had been a mortician for twenty-two years. He'd seen bodies torn apart in car crashes, corpses bloated beyond recognition, and even had to identify victims after a plane crash. But never ever had he seen anything like this.
A million questions raced through his mind: What exactly was he dealing with?
A new scientific anomaly? A mutating virus?
Something ancient? Something religious?
Something forbidden?
He chuckled nervously at his last thought and cracked his knuckles as he walked back to the gurney in the center of the room. The cadaver was already prepped for the freezer. Still, during cleanup, he'd found something that sent a chill sliding down his spine like a drop of cold sweat.
Bite marks.
Huge, grotesque indentations embedded deep into the skin at the back of the man's neck, like an animal. Or something worse. It looked like a human had sunk their teeth into the man's flesh. What disturbed him even more was the way the skin around the bite was decomposing at an accelerated rate. It blackened and was peeling, far more decayed than the rest of the body. Just like the heart.
He made sure to jot the observation down on the chart.
With gloved hands, he began pushing the gurney toward the freezer. The wheels squeaked and scraped loudly across the polished marble floor. His boots dragged with every step, the fatigue in his bones pulling at him like weights.
Smith was exhausted.
He hadn't slept in over twenty-six hours. His eyes burned, and his limbs ached. He paused for a second to flex his shoulders and stretch his palms above his head. "I need some damn rest," he muttered, his voice hoarse.
He gripped the handles again and pushed forward.
Then the sheet moved.
Just slightly. A small flutter, like a breeze had swept beneath it. But there was no breeze.
Smith froze.
A cold shiver ran up his spine, seizing him like a clamp. He stared at the motionless white sheet.
"What in God's name..." he whispered, stepping closer.
His heart thumped erratically in his chest as the scientist inside him roared to life. Possibilities, impossible, thrilling, terrifying possibilities flashed before his eyes. He remembered a case fifteen years ago when a supposedly dead woman had suddenly bolted upright during transport. The poor attendee had soiled himself on the spot.
But this wasn't that.
This man was dead. He had removed the heart himself.
Still, something inside him itched. He reached forward and peeled the white sheet slowly off the corpse's face.
What he saw made his blood run cold.
The corpse's lips were quivering.
Its chest rose and fell barely perceptible, but moving.
And then a low, guttural sound escaped from its throat. Almost a growl.
Dr. Smith leaned in, trembling, holding his breath as he lowered his ear toward the man's face.
"Grrr..." the sound rumbled, like the growl of a wounded animal.
He jerked back instinctively. His eyes widened. "Amazing," he whispered. He fumbled for his stethoscope and pressed it to the rib cage.
Nothing.
No heartbeat. No breath. But its lips were moving.
"This is incredible," he muttered.
Adrenaline surged through him. He rushed to the side and grabbed a scalpel, the cold metal shaking slightly in his grip. He was going to cut him open again. He had to know what was happening. He had to see.
He positioned the tip of the blade at the chest.
But when his eyes rose to the corpse's face... Its eyes were wide open.
Milky, lifeless white pupils stared directly at him.
Before he could move, the corpse's hands shot upward, clawing toward his face.
"What the hell?!" Dr. Smith shouted, stumbling back in panic.
The cadaver thrashed wildly, snarling like a rabid dog, its arms flailing in every direction, trying to sink its nails into the doctor's skin. Its mouth snapped open and shut like a rusted bear trap. Its teeth gnashing madly.
Dr. Smith reached for the nearest table, knocking over tools as he grabbed a bone saw.
But before he could use it, the corpse's hand seized his wrist, gripping it with unnatural strength.
The growling grew louder, more desperate, more... hungry.
"Let me go!" Smith shouted, struggling.
The cadaver was strapped down at the torso, but its arms and legs flailed with strength that no dead body should have. Smith felt the blood flow being choked off from his arm, the cold grip tightening like a vice.
Gritting his teeth, he lifted one boot and slammed it onto the side of the gurney for leverage. With his free hand, he tried prying the corpse's icy fingers from his skin.
With one final, desperate yank, Dr. Smith freed his hand.
The momentum knocked the gurney completely over, sending the corpse crashing to the ground with a grotesque THUD.
Panting, Smith stumbled back, heart hammering in his chest. He grabbed the bone saw and pointed it at the motionless form, eyes scanning for any further movement.
Silence.
He approached cautiously.
The cadaver was still.
But his jaw dropped when he saw what had happened.
The corpse's head had struck the floor so hard that the right side of its skull had caved in, splattering gray matter all over the sterile white tiles. The brain had exploded on impact, now pooling around the body in a sticky, pulpy mess.
Smith swallowed hard.
How the hell was he going to explain this?
He collapsed into a chair nearby, trembling. His mind reeled from what just happened. Then he felt it, a burning pain crawling up his arm.
He looked down.
His wrist was bleeding.
A long, jagged scratch mark curled around his forearm, like a ring of thorns. The skin already looked inflamed. "Bloody hell," he cursed. "The fucker scratched me..."
Not knowing what kind of infection or bizarre pathogen he might've been exposed to, he rushed to the cabinet and ripped it open. He grabbed peroxide, antibiotic ointment, and gauze, then cleaned the wound thoroughly before wrapping it in tight, sterile bandages.
After that, he quickly phoned the cleanup crew, then turned back to the body. He needed samples. Now.
Brain matter. Tissue from the neck. Skin near the bite. Anything that might give him answers.
This made no sense.
The man had been dead for over twelve hours, declared clinically deceased, autopsied... heart removed. Yet somehow, he was reanimated just minutes ago.
"This is madness," he muttered, shaking his head.
A wave of heat bloomed in his wrist, radiating up his forearm like fire under his skin. He cursed under his breath and gave himself an antibiotic shot.
Then came a wave of dizziness.
He gripped the table to keep himself from collapsing.
Stay up. Just stay up. Breathe.
A soft ding echoed through the room. The metal doors opened, and the cleaning crew entered.
"Hey, Dr. Smith," said Vince, the head of sanitation. "Heard you had a mess that needed our services."
Smith turned, his face pale but composed. "Yeah. I had... an accident. Can you clean this up and get it into the freezer?"
"Of course. It's our job," Vince said, stepping in and pulling on gloves.
"I've got to take these samples to the lab upstairs. I won't be back for a while. Just make sure it's contained."
"You got it," Vince said, patting him on the back. "Take your time, doc."
"Thanks, Vince."
Smith exited through the elevator, cradling the sample containers in one arm.
As he stepped into the hall, he nearly ran headfirst into Dr. Fletcher.
"Dr. Smith! Just the man I was looking for," Fletcher said. "Dr. McCall told me you needed to speak to me."
"Yes," Smith replied. "Walk with me. I'll explain on the way."
He told Fletcher everything. Every insane detail from the moment the body of Dr. Joseph Edwards was brought in.
Fletcher listened with furrowed brows and a disbelieving expression.
When Smith finished, Fletcher took a slow breath and said, "Have you gone mad, old friend? You expect me to believe any of that?"
"I'm telling you the truth, Andrew."
"Robert, I think you need a break. You've been overworking yourself."
"Fine," Smith said. "I'll take time off... after we analyze these samples."
Fletcher raised a brow. "You know we have lab techs for that."
"Those kids wouldn't know how to spot a real anomaly if it danced naked in front of them," Smith scoffed. "Except McCall and Stevens. Those two might just be better than both of us."
Fletcher chuckled, but his eyes drifted to the bandaged wrist. "As the chief, I insist you get that looked at properly once we're done."
"Sure," Smith nodded. "But I feel fine."
Fletcher didn't look convinced.
Together, the two doctors made their way to the lab, completely unaware that something inside Dr. Smith's bloodstream had already begun to change.