Grayson Walker

The Mortician

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“You’re not dead!” The short man took a step back, red dripping from his gloves.
“I’d damn well hope not.” I struggled to sit up. Bad move. My side felt like it had been stabbed by a red hot poker. “Oh shit,” I moaned. “I’ve got to get back before they find out the job isn’t done...”
Thrusters hummed in the background as I tried to identify the insignia on his uniform. Other than pegging him as Sovereignty, I didn’t recognize the distorted caduceus or black ring behind it.
“No, no. I prefer you dead,” he stuttered, staggering back farther. “I don’t work on the living. They promised me--only dead ones. Aliens are OK. Even Zorixians, but not live ones.” He shook his head. “They need to know you’re not dead and take you away.”
“Wait,” I stumbled as I tried to stand, my damaged body screaming in protest. Probably not a good time to tell him about the alien DNA from my father, then. Instead, I fixated on that one word, Zorixians. “I need to get back. How far are we from Zorix?”
As the man tried to reach for a panel on the wall, the ship lurched, throwing us off our feet. I braced for my impact with the floor, waiting for the hot tendrils of pain to spike out from my wounds again, but they never came.
“Death Inspector B3, secure all beings. We are under attack.”
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