The upper half of his face may have blended in with the deep shadows of the fire-lit room but nothing could hide the mottled pallor of his skin, a stark reminder that he was very much deceased. The cigarette in his mouth was a barely visible stub, flaring and fading with each unnecessary breath he took.
She'd arrived late, purse clutched in one hand and a warm pistol in the other. Her hands shook like an autumn tree's last leaf in the middle of a hurricane. She never did have the stomach for the family business after all but being the only living one left in a world where the undead are still a new concept, she was the face of their affairs and on occasions like tonight - the body too.
Some day she'd be sat next to him, bloating and rotting and watching her grandchild come in from the vibrant world of the living with a warm gun in their hand and a gentle smattering of blood along their trousers. Some day she'd be the one handing them a tumbler of brandy and speaking in the solemn soothing tones of the dead.
Some day... but for now she was sat in a chair that smelled vaguely of the formaldehyde she helped inject into the worst of her decaying family. She placed her gun in the waiting tray to be disposed of and took the brandy with welcome hands, hoping to forget her latest mission.
It was hard to say which left a more bitter taste in her mouth.
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