Deadhouse
an excerpt

Green camouflaged sneakers neatly skirted the blood pool congealing quietly on the hardwood floor. The bedroom was cramped, white, and clean, lit by a bedside lamp with a dark blue shade. The bed was a double, crisply made in only green sheets with one pillow centered within millimeters of perfect. The plain blinds were drawn, but glowed against the morning sunlight.

Lying dead on the floor, occupying all of the small space between the bed and the wall, was a man in his sixties, gray hair and gray skin, naked and stiff, eyes half open and the top of his skull completely open. His brains had fallen in a fine mist around him, speckling the wall and the bed with his former intellect.

Michaelina Zettke straddled the blood pool and squatted down, hands clasped between her knees, assessing the situation with the critical eye of a veteran.

“How in the hell are we gonna do this?” she asked, looking up at her partner.