Outside, the world was waiting.

Inside, the silence was as cold as guilt.

A woman’s corpse lay on one of several occupied gurneys, in preparation for the pathologist’s scalpel. An off-white sheet partially covered her; she was in her mid-twenties and plain in death, despite the nakedness of her upper torso. Whatever desire she'd inspired in life had become irrelevant now. Dull abrasions, dried blood, and unhealed wounds decorated parts of her forehead, left cheek, and shoulder. Her throat had been cut. Her right breast bore dark blotches—the imprint of cruel fingers.

In that moment, a word was insinuated into the silence: it was the susurration of a foot on dirt, the creak of a branch touched by wind, the sigh of a dying breath.

Now.

The woman’s dead hand twitched as the airborne vibrations of the word entered through her fingertips. Quickening spread up her arm and into her chest, slowly and painfully; it ground through atrophied muscle with a will more inexorable than decay. Finally, her chest heaved, straining with the effort of life.

The woman’s eyes opened. For a few seconds, they looked into darkness beyond the ceiling; then they flicked sideways, left and right, searching. Her bloodless lips faltered with queries she couldn't express.

As she pushed herself upright, the soiled sheet slipped away. Sitting on the edge of the gurney, she stared at blood-splatter that had formed suggestive glyphs across her thigh. Her hand touched them tenderly.

“Jesus?” Echoing from deep within her, the word was low and strangled. Her fingers followed the blood and the lines cut into her skin as though they carried an answer written in Braille.

She pulled her hand away and looked around, searching the room’s dim ambiance. Then she stood. On an adjacent gurney lay another corpse, more covered in its morgue cloth than she had been; only its feet were visible, masculine and distorted by misuse, a tag tied to its big toe. She dragged the cloth away.

The man was as naked as her but less defiled. Death had erased all signs of age from his features, leaving him an ugly, grey golem. The woman frowned as though in recognition.

“Jesus?” she whispered.

Amid the hair on his chest, two bloody bullet holes scarred the waxen skin around his left nipple. Her hand hovered over them, so close the whisper of her trembling fingers flattened the surrounding hair. The body shifted. One hand twitched.

Resurrection began.

"No!” she growled, jerking back from him and stepping away.

The corpse settled, its nascent life draining out onto the gurney and dissipating into stale air.

She stared at the dead man's face, searching her faded memory. Then her curiosity twisted into a snarl. She heard echoes of his threats, felt his loveless touch once again and recoiled from his blows. He had forced himself on her with brutal indifference to her pain.

Stupid bitch, he'd growled, dragging his blade against her throat. The sound of wailing sirens filled the night.

So intent was she upon remembering every detail of the police siege that had ended in his death, she didn't notice the door behind her swing open.

Light burst into the room, filling it like a recollection of gunfire. Simultaneously a harsh metallic clatter jerked her from her reverie. She turned; a young morgue attendant stood in the open doorway, shock plastering his face. A metal tray and various implements lay about his feet. Shaking, he stared at the naked woman with the open throat and abused body. She stared back amid the sterile whiteness of the morgue.

"They told me …" His voice quivered. "They told me you were dead."

The woman moved toward him, one arm stretched in front of her, as though pleading. Her lips quivered. He couldn't make out what she was saying—the awkward bend of her jaw seemed far from natural.

"Please …" the morgue attendant whined. "What … do you want?"

Her pale hand reached for his throat, but still he couldn't move. Her eyes, starkly bright against the corpse-like pallor of her face, filled him with dread; they drained whatever hope he had of backing away and fleeing her presence. When she spoke again, her ruined throat distorted the words, making them meaningless. Whimpering, the morgue attendant cowered from her. The woman's fingers brushed against his cheek. In that instant, the attendant's eyes shrivelled into his skull, and the skin of his neck and face began to bleed. Blood dribbled down his withering body, and as it struck the floor, turned to ash. "Jesus?" the woman asked once more. The attendant's desiccated corpse collapsed to the floor.

With an air of unfathomable sadness, the woman stepped over his remains.

"Jesus?" she moaned as she stumbled down the plain grey corridor.

Outside, the world was waiting.