Cracking jaw. Popping joints. Grinding eyes. And a moan of a dead guy refusing to stay dead-dead.

A twitch. Another one, stronger. Then, a gasp. Harsh, loud, followed by another moan.

Quick, stiff, Adam jerks into an upward position. A heavy sheet pulls with him, still hanging over his face. Every muscle burns. Every cell pulls on his body. He feels his lip grow back over his teeth. A newly grown tip of tongue clucks fleshy and moist against the roof of his mouth. His ankle turns and squeaks into place, popping back into the joint. Holes and scrapes along his chest pull close. It all hurts. It all burns more than what caused these wounds in the first place—most of all, the massive hole in the back of his head. As the bone forms back around the skull like a web spun by a spider on crack, Adam slowly becomes aware of the world around him.

This is it—the one free ticket he gets. The single breath of life in his body, given to him by the Keeper to wake up and walk the earth once more. From here on out, the clock is ticking. Life in his dead body will slowly dissipate, and Adam knows the only way to stop the otherwise certain decay into zombie-hood is to sate the hunger. To sustain his life with the death of others.

He pulls the sheet off of his head and stares into the face of a man in white lab coat. Cowering by the wall, unable to speak anything but a guttural stutter, the man’s eyes are pried wide open in terror. It takes Adam a long second to clue in.

He just rose from the dead, on top of a coroner table, covered by a white sheet and with a bullet hole in his head. Without any more brains, because it emptied out all over the streets. A sight this poor medical expert surely didn’t see coming. Though, Adam thinks, this guy must have thought of it before. Surrounded by dead people all day long. Maybe he touched some of them, see if they would react. Morbid little fuck.

Adam gets up, not in a hurry, but relaxed and chill.

He says, “Nice coat.” He spreads his arms, stretches his back. Puts his hands to his hip and twists his waist first left, then right. “Got one for me? Kind of exposed over here.”

The man can’t muster the sanity to react.

“I know. All very strange. Dead guy. Undead guy. Whatever. Can’t explain it every time this happened. Just deal with it.”

It’s true. Adam has found himself in similar situations before. Unfortunately, he can’t just walk out the front door in the Underworld in his ghostly representation of his body. No, no, there are rules. He will be send back to his deceased body. Shot up, burned, drowned, slashed into pieces—no matter. Once he came back after his body was cremated. His ashes crumbled back together like a whirlwind of dust and death. When he came to his senses, he inhaled a deep lung of ash. Gritty between his teeth, the ash stuck to the roof of his mouth—the taste clung to his tongue for days.

And sometimes there are witnesses. Mostly morticians, or pathologists on late-night shift. Sometimes, when his dead body was still out in the world somewhere, some unlucky homeless people or joggers or fuck-knows who walked by as he came back. Stumbling through the bushes, rising from the water. A few times, Adam tried to explain the situation—either lie or simply try to tell the truth. All in vain. All for nothing. This time, he doesn’t see the point. So he walks up to the little man and asks again. “Is there a coat for me?”

The man stutters a incoherent succession of consonants and vowels.

“Okay. No. Just give me yours. And then I’ll be on my way.”

After an awkward minute of silence, only slightly disturbed by a whimsical moaning of a man about to void his bladder without control, Adam gets his coat and disappears.

***

Getting out of the morgue is easier than it sounds. A few flights of stairs, a shy turn away from some passing workers (the lab coat surely helps with the authenticity). Then, out on the streets, with the night-life happening all around him.

Honking cabs.

Barking dogs.

Hip Hop. Rave. Dance. Rock. One bar after the next. Lights, sound, people over people. In all its glory, the streets pulsing with life.

The city that never sleeps. Jacked up on cocaine and gluttony. Hyperactive, exploding, like an aneurism just before the sudden death.

Twenty-four-seven fast-food restaurants, always-open strip clubs, and the never stopping spin-cycling and tumble-drying laundromats for those in need of a quick wash-and-rinse. They throw their clothes into the washer or dryer and go for a quick beer or three to the bar next door.

The guy running this particular cleaning shop is anything but mentally present. Maybe a tweaker. Maybe just old and fucked up tired. He stares at a magazine in front of him.

Adam doesn’t care.

Another guy sleeps on the floor at the end of the row of vibrating machines. Leaning against the dryer, wearing a pair of jeans with more holes than threads left. Drool runs from the corner of his mouth, and into the open palm of his odd-angled, twisted hand. One of his flip-flops fell off his foot. The other one clings to the a yellow-green toe nail grown into oblivion and back. He sleeps like a baby. Rocking and shaking back and forth with the dryer.

Tumbled to sleep.

Two teens are making out. Hair long, died, clipped, and either over-styled, or not washed in months. Tongue around tongue, like a snake around another snake. Pressed against another dryer set to extra-tumble. To vibrate their hips as their horny, dripping pink parts rub each other sore through thin sweatpants.

Young love—beautiful and heart-warming.

Nobody gives Adam a look. Nobody sees the man dressed in only a lab coat stalking around the shop. Like a creep ready to expose his deformed dick to the next group of helpless old ladies. The owner flips a page of his magazine. All the pages might as well be blank, or full of detailed pictures of animal droppings, because his eyes aren’t moving, reading, or absorbing anything. Hell, they’re barely open.

In its absurd state, this place is almost like a quiet sanctuary in midst the busy city life. An island of tranquility, where all worries are forgotten. However absurd, nonetheless. Not the place Adam wants to hang out at.

Usually, this isn’t necessary. Adam knows a guy. Seth—his dealer. His handler, pusher, fixer. Another loyal puppet for the Keeper. The guy that gets Adam what he needs, so Adam can go and get things done. For instance: clothing; cash; weapons.

But today there’s no time for that. He’s behind schedule—again.

After scanning through the bountiful tumblers, Adam collects a handful of semi-dry clothes that might fit alright. Or at least look to be the lesser of the bad fits he can gather.

In and out.

Unseen. Unnoticed.

Adam leaves the shop in his newly acquired, well-worn flip-flops, with a sound slowly-but-surely driving him insane.

Flip. Flop.

Next Chapter: Chapter 7 -- Homicide