He lay there for a while, replaying in his mind what had just happened to him. He felt more alive. He could feel more. When he breathed, every scent was sharper and more distinguishable. He could see better than before. Something bizarre was happening to him. He remembered everything that happened until he was shot. He was shot? The memories of his life came back to him. He had died. Was he dead? No. He moved his hand up slowly, afraid to touch his forehead where he had been shot. His chest was fine. His neck. His lips. His nose. His forehead . . . he put his finger into the hole in his skull. He jumped up with a start and hit his head on something. He felt around himself, feeling plastic, and beyond the plastic, something hard and metallic. What was going on? Was he, Jake Veskie, dead at age 27?

He flailed wildly in his confines, the crunch, pow of metal being hit with force could be heard, at least if anyone was in the morgue at 1:00 a.m. He kicked his feet down and the cover of his little capsule flew out and was implanted into the wall. He could see it was dark. He was in a bag? He pushed himself out of the little shelf where he was and ripped himself out of the body bag. He was in the morgue. He had died. People had seen him dead, and brought him here.

What was going on? Everything seemed more vibrant. The cold metal edges of the tables seemed sharper. He could smell something. Someone alive was coming. It was probably security. He had to hide somewhere! What excuse does a man have to be in the morgue at this hour unless he's dead? He suddenly found himself under a table. Oh yeah, great place to hide.

The door squeaked open. A security officer peeked his head through and looked around cautiously, and spoke out. "Is anyone there?" He listened for a moment. "Well, if anyone is there, you better get out of here." The door shut and he left.

He shook himself. What was wrong with him? He remembered speaking a language he did not know in a place that could not possibly exist. He remembered being shot in the head, and now here he is, the hole in his head and everything, alive. He reached for the hole again, and put his finger inside. Only to find that it wasn't very deep. Was he healing from an injury that went straight through his brain? Is that even possible to do?

Suddenly a light flashed at him. "I knew someone was in here!" The security guard hadn't actually left. He was too busy thinking to notice. And now, suddenly, as soon as the light flashed, he felt his skin burn hot. It grew so hot it was painful. The words echoed in his mind. "You shall build me an army." An army? Who was she? "You have become mine." Who was she? Beautiful. Frightening. She excited him and petrified him. His flesh felt like it was boiling. Before he knew what was happening, he stood over a lifeless security guard. "I just killed him?" he spoke aloud to himself. "But my flesh . . . " He felt his arms. They were normal. The security officer's neck was broken. His face looked surprised. It had only been seconds. How could he do that? He was stronger than before. He had died. Only now, he felt alive then he had ever felt before.