The Immortality Game

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Zoya hummed along to a pre-Dark Times rock tune as she sketched a final line of purple lipstick onto the grossly fat man on the stainless steel slab. She often listened to music while she worked, since it helped take her mind from the peculiar canvas upon which she plied her art. Her preference was for rock from the quaint times when people played their own instruments and wrote their own songs. Lennon and McCartney, Waters and Gilmour, Plant and Page…‌demigods of a dead age.

She didn’t enjoy working with corpses — the faint smell of decay and the stronger one of embalming fluid, the coldness of the skin — but after three years of working in the morgue, she no longer feared them. Instead she focused on her beloved music and tried to imagine what kind of life each of her customers had led, what dreams they had left unfulfilled.

Fans whirred softly, stirring the chilled air of the room. She stood up to get a better view of the face, and jumped as someone dug fingers into her side from behind.

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