[The characters here are real. The story is pure fiction. The people are owned by themselves. The story is mine.]

PROLOGUE

"Okay, look, dead people are supposed to be bagged when you bring them in."
"We ran out."
"You ran out of big, black bags? Couldn't you have at least put him in a trash bag or. something.?"
"That's morbid!"
".You're an EMT. You work on dying people. You see intestines and blood and stuff all over the pavement everyday. And you think putting someone in another kind of big black bag is morbid?"
"Yes!"
"Okay. just. I'll check him in, hold on."
Chris's hands fumbled for the pen. It was suddenly hard to focus. Perhaps the dull, blank stare of the dead man, lying on the stretcher had something to do with it. Quickly, he scribbled down the information, tore off the form, and handed it to the blood-spattered EMT. "Give this to the guy at the end of the hall. He'll um. put that guy away." he muttered, looking everywhere but in the lifeless blue eyes.
Without another word, the two departed, stretcher wheels squeaking ominously on the white tile. Only after the noise subsided did he marginally relax. It was impossible to completely relax here. His unfinished English paper was spread across the desk, mingling with book payments. The sheets of paper were splashes of blue-stained white against the dull brown were more striking than the blood on the EMT's hands, or the dead man's face. He suppressed a shudder. However, seeing this sort of thing was too common for him to dwell on, so he turned back to the term paper.
Footsteps announced the next visitor, while the dull thud of boots told him who it was. "Hey, Danielle, need something?" he asked, not even looking up.
"Your shift's over," she announced. A few papers scuttled across the desk at the touch of her hand. She seated herself in the empty space. "Anything really creepy I should know about?"
He shrugged. "Not really. Just some stupid guy who forgot to bring enough bags for his dead. people." A small, nervous laugh escaped him. He picked up the papers, staring with dismay at the blue ink now smeared across his hands. "God. I hate this pen!"
Danielle slid into his seat, looking even smaller in the oversized chair. "Want to borrow mine?" Before he could answer, she held it out to him. "Works okay."
"Oh, thanks." He tucked the pen into his pocket. "Is anyone else around?"
"Um. I think Alycia and J. Michael are back. Lianna's still at her other job." She paused. "Why? Scared?"
He laughed, loud. The sound filled the little office, echoing hollowly off the cold walls. "No! Why? Do I look scared?"
Danielle smirked. The slight upward tilt of her mouth gave off a feeling that was not quite mirth. "Just a little. Relax, you don't want your nice white pants to get ruined." With that, she opened her backpack, pulling out her math text.
Pride smarting, Chris left, overstuffed bag flopping against his back with each indignant step. He strode down the hall, past the ominously chilled rooms, to where blank, hospital tile turned to nondescript blue- green carpet. The smell of burned food, cold coffee, and Herbal Essences shampoo clung to the walls here, barely chasing away the antiseptic stink of the rooms beyond. A frayed couch was shoved against one beige wall, facing a cramped kitchenette and ancient television set. Beside the couch was a card table whose better days had been spent being thrown against walls and poker players. Its five chairs, equally beaten, were scattered around the room, with only one pushed into its proper place. The last wall was straight out of a 60's game show; three identical doors, each leading to a very different place.
Everything was old. Everything was a bland, corporate color that bled into the mind, leaving no place for brilliant things. The newest thing in the room was the tiny refrigerator, and even that was a shocking, sterile white.
It was because of this boring color spectrum, that Chris was exceedingly glad he lived with art majors. Lianna, Danielle, and even Alycia on occasion, enjoyed hanging their latest works in the living room, often rotating through several pieces a month. Today, Lianna displayed a still life, rich with purple cloth, green grapes and bright blue bottles, over the couch. Between the doors were Alycia's series of photographs, two color shots of a beach and the third a black and white park. Danielle's hung nearest the door he'd entered through, an abstract dancer, painted in vivid, living crimson, his mouth open in an unidentifiable expression.
With a sigh, he tossed his bag onto the table. It slid into the phone, knocking it off the receiver. Chris swore, hoping no one would notice the black marks his bag had left on the machine, and put it back.
"Longest day ever," he muttered, going for a drink. Not even that simple task was completed without further irritation. He'd had to move J. Michael's soda out of the way to get to the Gatorade. Still muttering to himself, Chris flopped on the couch, not noticing when a puff of foam cushion escaped. He sipped the drink, wondering distantly where the remote had gone, and vaguely thinking he should be working.
The phone rang.
He dove for it, going, at the same time, for a pen and paper. It rang several more times before he could locate the writing essentials. When he managed to pick it up, the words rolled off his tongue with a startling ease.
"Allen City Morgue. This is Chris Jacobsen. How can I help you?"