I had a vague but strangely familiar sensation as if I am lying on a cold hard slab and that someone is slowly pushing it towards a detested destination. Then a series of peculiar dreams filled my mind: A black pillar covered with white inscriptions. Rows upon rows of skulls on shelves. A symbol burned in flames. A woman smiling at me and yet seeming so sad. A petty thug slashing his knife at me. An ethereal ghost.
I awoke to find myself on a slab, made of carved stone lined with rusty metal along the edges. Briefly glancing around, I realised that I was in a middle of a large room of bizarre qualities. As I levered myself up, I caught movement from the corner of my eye. A floating white-grey skull with a perfect pair of eyeballs in the eye sockets. No, I realized as it spoke: a floating, talking, skull.
“Hey, chief. You okay? You playing corpse or you putting the blinds on the Dusties? I thought you were a deader for sure.” I was confused, and had trouble focusing on what the skull was saying.
“Wh…? Who are you?”
“Uh… who am I? How about you start? Who’re you?”
“I… don’t know. I can’t remember.” It was an overwhelming experience to discover that my memory was a blank slate.
“You can’t remember your name? Heh. Well, NEXT time you spend a night in this berg, go easy on the bub. Name’s Morte. I'm trapped in here, too.”
“Trapped?”
“Yeah, since you haven’t had time to get your legs yet, here’s the chant: I've tried all the doors, and this room is locked tighter than a chastity belt.” I needed to orient myself and find out from the skull where I was.
“We’re locked in… where? What is this place?”
“It’s called the ‘Mortuary'… it’s a big black structure with all the architectural charm of a pregnant spider.”
“ ‘The Mortuary?’ What… am I dead?” I did not think this was all still a dream.
“Not from where I'm standing. You got scars a-plenty, though… looks like some berk painted you with a knife. All the more reason to give this place the laugh before whoever carved you up comes back to finish the job.”
“Scars? How bad are they?”
“Well… the carvings on your chest aren’t TOO bad… but the ones on your back…” Morte paused. “Say, looks like you got a whole tattoo gallery on your back, chief. Spells out something…”
I looked down at myself, and realized the truth about the scars Morte mentioned. They covered nearly every visible bit of my skin. There was a tattoo on my arm as well, the same one I saw from my dream. I wondered what was on my back, though.
“Tattoos on my back? What do they say?”
“Heh! Looks like you come with directions…” Morte cleared his throat. “Let’s see… it starts with… ‘I know you feel like you've been drinking a few kegs of Styx wash, but you need to CENTRE yourself. Among your possessions is a JOURNAL that'll shed some light on the dark of the matter. PHAROD can fill you in on the rest of the chant, if he’s not in the dead-book already.’ ”
“Pharod…? Does it say anything else?”
“Yeah, there’s a bit more…” Morte paused. “Let’s see… it goes on…”
“ ‘Don’t lose the journal or we'll be up the Styx again. And whatever you do, DO NOT tell anyone WHO you are or WHAT happens to you, or they'll put you on a quick pilgrimage to the crematorium. Do what I tell you: READ the journal, then FIND Pharod.’ ” Morte sounded very serious.
“No wonder my back hurts; there’s a damn novel written there. As for that journal I'm supposed to have with me… was there one with me while I was lying here?”
“No… you were stripped to the skins when you arrived here. ‘Sides, looks like you got enough of a journal penned on your body.”
“What about Pharod? Do you know him?” I was curious as to how this person’s name got on my back. Was he a friend? Someone important, perhaps?
“Nobody I know… but then again, I don’t know many people. Still, SOME berk’s got to know where to find Pharod… uh, once we get out of here, that is.”
“How do we get out of here?” I looked more intently around the dimly lit room. It was shaped, interestingly enough, like a slice of a cake. The floor was constructed of tiles of uneven shape with shades of grey, green and blue. Occasional railway tracks ran across the room. I was still wondering what those tracks were for until I realised that they were for the seven or so slabs in the room, seeing a railway track crossed underneath the slab I was on.
“Well, all the doors are locked, so we'll need the key. Chances are, one of the walking corpses in this room has it.”
“Walking corpses?” I queried.
“Yeah, the Mortuary keepers use dead bodies as cheap labour. The corpses are dumb as stones, but they’re harmless, and won’t attack you unless you attack first.” Morte was suggesting that I kill these corpses. How ironic.
“Is there some other way? I don’t want to kill them just for a key.”
“What, you think it’s going to hurt their feelings? They’re DEAD. But if you want a bright side to this: if you kill them, at least they'll have a rest before their keepers raise them up to work again.”
“Well, all right… I'll take one of them down and get the key.”
I surveyed the room again and saw some zombies at the far right side of the room beside several slabs, almost hidden in the dark shadows. They appeared to shuffle around slowly, attending to whatever work they were assigned to, presumably. I was about to approach one of them before Morte interrupted me.
“Well, before you do that, arm yourself first. I think there’s a scalpel on one of the shelves around here.”
“All right, I’ll look for one.”
“One last thing: Those corpses are as slow as molasses, but getting punched by one of them is like being kissed by a battering ram. If they start getting an edge on you, remember you can RUN, and they can’t.”
“All right. Thanks for the advice.” I sheepishly replied.
I spotted a cupboard against a wall behind me and started to walk towards it. I passed by another slab, then briefly stopped to examine it. This slab was covered with dried blood and other remains. A device sat at the end of the slab, looking like some sort of sewing machine… arms with hooks, tubes, and metallic thread hang from it. Beside the slab, just on the floor, were barrels containing a murky liquid. It smelled like a cross between vinegar and formaldehyde.
I finally reached the wooden cupboard to find it almost as disgusting as the slab I just encountered. Bandages, jars of fluids of various colours, and some rags covered with blood line the shelves. On the counter lie several dirty surgical tools and a pool of red blood awaiting evaporation.
I searched the drawers until I came up with a scalpel. The simple surgical cutting tool looked like it has seen a lot of use. Morte, who was floating and following my every move, chimed in.
“All right, you found a scalpel! Now, go get those corpses… and don’t worry, I'll stay back and provide valuable tactical advice.”
“Maybe you could help me, Morte.”
“I WILL be helping you. Good advice is hard to come by.” The jabbering skull could be annoying.
“I meant help in attacking the corpse.”
“Me? I'm a romantic, not a soldier. I'd just get in the way.”
“When I attack this corpse, you better be right there with me or you'll be the next thing that I plunge this scalpel in.”
“Eh… all right. I'll help you.” Morte tilted up and down in a nod.
“I’m glad we understand each other.” I smiled sarcastically.
“Time to introduce these corpses to the second death, then…”
“Let’s go.”
I approached one of the zombies mindlessly moving about the room. This shambling male corpse looked like it has been dead for several years. The skin along its forehead had peeled back, revealing its chalk-white skull. Someone had chiselled the number “569” into the exposed bone.
“I’m looking for a key… do you happen to have one?” I asked the corpse.
“Uh, chief… they can’t hear you, all right? They’re dead.” Morte swished from behind me.
“But you’re dead. And you’re talking to me.”
“Yeah, but I’m special. Death couldn’t kill my zest for life. These corpses here…” Morte rolled his eyes. “They probably didn’t have much personality to begin with.”
“I… see.” The first few minutes of my lucidity was getting increasingly weird.
I examined the corpse, but it did not appear to be carrying a key… and it did not look like it would be able to use one if it did. Its fingers were broken, as if someone smashed them with a hammer.
Behind the zombie was a body supine on a slab. It looked like someone was in the middle of dissecting the corpse. It was turned in inside out; a machine at the head of the table has peeled the skin off the forehead to give direct access to the skull. I doubt it was the zombie’s work, however.
I left the walking corpse in peace and went closer to another zombie nearby. Again, I was distracted by a dead body on a slab beside the zombie. A bloody cloth covered the remains of the cadaver. The stench rising from the body is almost unbearable.
It puzzled me how I did not feel disturbed with the state of this room: multiple slabs covered in blood, cadavers dissected open just waiting for the dissector to complete the job, bodily remains kept in jars while some spread over tables, and the odor of embalming fluid mixed with the smell of decay wafting in the cold air. I imagined any other person would drown in fear.
The corpse stopped and stared blankly at me as I approach. The number “782” was carved into his forehead, and his lips were stitched closed. The faint smell of formaldehyde emanated from the body.
“This looks like the lucky petitioner here, chief. Look… he’s got the key there in his hand.” I didn’t need Morte’s help to see that. It was holding the key tightly in its left hand, its thumb and forefinger locked around it in a death grip. I probably needed to hack the corpse’s hand off to free the key.
“I need that key, corpse… looks like you’re not long for this world.” I muttered to myself. Several calculated thrusts with the scalpel and a couple of bites from Morte killed the creature swiftly that it barely was able to retaliate. I forced the key out from its dead hand.
The key was tied with a dirty cloth labelled “Preparation Room Key”. The head of this bronze key had been twisted around itself several times, so that it resembles a screw. If Morte was to be believed, it would unlock one of the doors in this room.
There were three door; two on the wall with the cupboard and another on the opposite wall. At random, I chose the door nearest to me, which coincidentally was the farthest from the cupboard.
The metal door was double-hinged and large enough to be a gate, with a dull design of vertical stripes but oddly menacing, as if the designer intended that anyone wishing to pass through this door to have second thoughts. I used the key nervously, not knowing what would lie beyond this room.
