#datn

Dominic turned on the ancient little radio and the mortuary filled with static. He fiddled with the dials for a minute until he finally got a rock station, and a classic began to echo off it’s gleaming, white walls.

It's all the same, only the names will change

Everyday, it seems we're wastin' away

Another place where the faces are so cold

Dominic pumped his fist in the air, and sang loudly, off pitch, in the direction of his supervisor, Dolores.

“I drive all night just to get back home. I'm a cowboy,— C’mon Dolores!— on a steel horse I ride. I'm wanted,” air guitar for good measure, “dead or alive. Wanted dead or alive!”

Dolores rolled her eyes. “Alright, alright. That was beautiful, Dom.”

“Thank you,” he bowed, still air guitar-ing on his way to the table.

“But unfortunately, I’m going to go take my break,” she said, slipping her mask off with a small huff. “Go ahead and get the next decedent ready. I’ll be back in fifteen.”

He nodded, still singing behind his mask for her.

It would be a waste not to use the acoustics, wouldn’t it? And in here, they were luscious. He slid the embalmed corpse back into her locker, and plucked the clipboard off the next one.

“Edward Evans,” he said, “42. C.O.D, liver failure. Shit, that’s rough, my guy. Don’t worry,  We’ll get you lookin’ nice and neat in no time.”

If someone had told him five years ago that he’d be working as a mortuary assistant, he wouldn’t have believed it. He hated anything to do with death and dying. Didn’t like to think about it. Yet here he was in scrubs, an embalming machine to his left. Doing the dirty work—the important work. Not to mention the other reason he was so interested in this career in the first place: his dirty little secret. A secret that, by all rights, should have kept him as far away from dead bodies as possible.

A barely audible cough echoed in the mortuary, and Dominic turned the radio back off. He was the only one here. He stilled, and there it was again, a small dry cough, and it was coming from Edward Evan’s storage.

Oh, God. His nightmares were coming true. He panicked, and a headline flashed in his mind: LOCAL MAN MISTAKEN FOR DEAD, NEARLY EMBALMED ALIVE! He rushed over to the locker, yanked it open, and stared down at the pale, waxy body of Mr. Evans. His mousy brown hair was flat one one side and his limbs, not yet massaged to relieve the rigor, were at slightly odd angles. He looked like a corpse.

Then he opened his milky eyes, startling Dominic. Edward Evan’s stared straight ahead, blankly. Clearly, the man was still a dead. Well, mostly dead. And there was only one person who would go through all this trouble to get to Dom.

“Shit,” Dominic said, “what does he want?”

“Hhhas a message. For you,” Evans rasped.

“Okay? Well?”

“He wants,” Evans took another gravelly breath, “meet at the diner.”

Motherf— he was promised a good long year before he ever had to hear from him again, let alone see him face to face. “You’re kidding me.”

“Tonight. Seven.”

His day was ruined. His night was ruined. Feeling all kinds of tired already, he said, “Well, I get off work at seven, so I’m probably gonna be a little late.”

“…Fine. Take your time…” the Evans managed. Then he shivered, the air left his lungs, and he was fully dead again.  

What was supposed to be a normal, chill night curled up with the afghan he was this close to finishing turned into a nightmare dinner.

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