Conversations With A Corpse

It's Officer Andrews. Christina. Whatever you'd like to call me, I guess. Well... that was strange. I've never had to talk with the living dead before. I- just... wow. I'm kind of at a loss for words here. It was possibly one of the most terrifying experiences I've ever had.

Agent Mandale told me. First of all, he jostled me awake. Then he told me, only loud enough for me to hear, that there was something in the bedroom I needed to see. After about fifteen awkward seconds with my gun aimed at his ribs, he finally explained what he meant.

Did I believe him? No. Hell no. Who would? Nobody... well... Father Daniels, maybe, considering he was up and walking with a gaping hole in his neck.

I didn't believe it when I saw it. Again, who could possibly believe that?

He said hello to us. It was strange the way he said it. He said it in a monotone, as if rising from the dead and greeting us was routine. But the way he said it hinted at... something between playful and malicious.

Hang on... I'll try paraphrasing the conversation.

"Hello, Ms. Andrews. Hello, Mr. Mandale. Make it brief, I only have so much time in this body."

Agent Mandale asked the first question, and it was probably the most logical question in the entire interrogation- if you can call it that, even... "Father Daniels, how are you- how are you even alive?"

"Father Daniels? No, no, my child, you got it all wrong. Well, you can call me Twelve, if you wish."

I asked the next question. "Twelve, why Twelve?"

"Because once the clock strikes twelve, the game resets."

I tried not to emote, but I did glance towards Mandale, who did, for a split second, glance towards his watch.

"It's still 10:23, Mr. Daniels... Twelve. Would you mind telling us your little game?"

Then Mr. Daniel's hand slowly rotted into grotesque shades of green, purple, and black and fell off- well, I think it had been since the beginning, but it was noticed only when he stooped down to pick up the remains of his right hand. "Oh, time's running out before I move on. I can hold a body for a good week without rotting, and some of my brothers and sisters can hold it for almost a year, but dead meat... is a little tricky. What were you asking?"

"What is your game, Twelve?" I was getting tired of this conversation already.

"Well..." (I don't remember too much of what he said, but I'll still put the jist of it in quotes...) "...you see, I've been playing this game for a long, long time. Always brought people somewhere. Maybe six- like yourselves, maybe sixteen, maybe sixty four, at some points. But the goal is mainly the same. I- hop- into bodies, I suppose you could say. Like this man, Daniels. And the rotted sack over in the far corner. Easy enough, I suppose. I hop into  one person, just one, and I start picking people off, one by one. The goal is to kill my hosts until we're down to only two. Then, it all depends on who survives- me..." (I think it was this point that his legs fell off) "...or not me."

"That's a sick game, Twelve. But how am I sure you're not still Daniels, but... ...ill?"

"Ill? Very funny, Mr. Mandale... in any case, my time runs out. Who shall I hop into next? Hmm..."

Finally, his head gave in and rolled off its neck, hitting and rolling on the floor. Then the entire corpse fell over, motionless.



That... was a painful process, I will admit.

Even remembering it is painful enough.

I suppose that... we're supposed to pick each other off...

Mandale's talking about food and rations. He found a cellar stocked with alcoholic beverages as well as cheese, bread, and produce. All fresh, somehow. He's reluctant to believe a single word of what "Twelve" was saying. I want to go along with him, believe everything is fine if we can hold out long enough, but... I just don't see that happening.

I just don't.