Burned, severe burns, fourth degree we assume, the voice over the radio muttered.

The truck engine rumbled, and grey plumes of smoke emerge from inside of the exhaust pipe.

I pop my keys in my cup holder and grab my radio.

The truck door opened with a click, and I slowly got out, slamming the door my way out.

Rain dribbled onto the front of the white truck, erupting in small bursts that left little

drops of my face.

The concrete was wet, creating a glossy and frothy effect along the road.

A brick corridor separated me, and the gloomy morgue I'd worked at for years on end.

I walked to the back of the truck, and fidgeted with a lock.

How was the burn caused, I asked the man.

Faulty equipment inside the ship, at least we assume, we haven't had any confirmation,

but, from what we assume, it had to have been mechanical mishaps, we couldn't find

or recover any of the bodies, they must have been pulled out of space when the interior

was punctured.

There's the information about the accident classified, I questioned him once again, and

as for now, yes, government officials will no device when necessary.

The metal doors swung open, and a terrible smell corrupted the fresh, missed the air.

I'd had the stench of rotten roadkill searing in the sun.

I cringed in horror, yet I smelled the same thing a million times, and somehow I hadn't

gotten used to it.

I grabbed the cold, metal stretcher, and pulled it out of the truck.

The top over the body flooded in the wind, and it was as if the corpse was alive, grasping

...