The Dead Series (Book 1): Tell Me When I'm Dead by Steven Ramirez Page A

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    “I guess—I wasn’t there. I’m sorry, I don’t feel well.” I headed for the exit. Detective Van Gundy followed me.
    “I understand,” he said. “I’ve got more questions, but they can wait.”
    “What about the woman?”
    “We’re obtaining her cell records. That should tell us something.”
    “Right,” I said, trying to mask the dread that chewed at my guts. “See you.”
    As I walked off, the detective called to me.
    “Yeah?”
    “Seeing as Mr. Stanley had no next of kin, were you planning on handling the burial arrangements? The hospital said to ask you.”
    I hadn’t even thought of that. It was true, Jim had no one. “Yeah, I’ll take care of it.” I didn’t know where the money would come from, but it was the least I could do for my friend.
    I left the cop and found my truck. I couldn’t shake the feeling he was watching me the whole way. Like he knew what had happened and was waiting for me to slip up. Even if this was all in my head, it was a matter of time anyway. Once they went through Missy’s cell phone records and saw all the calls and texts to me, it was over. Now would be a brilliant time to get my affairs in order.
    As I left the parking lot, a naked woman with greyish skin and red eyes staggered in front of me. She looked like a mean drunk. Her abdomen was cut open, and I saw a piece of white plastic tubing protruding from the incision. I think it was a Lap-Band. Her hands sliced the air as she bared pin-like teeth. I thought she was a patient—till I saw the toe tag.
    I slammed on the brakes as the two morgue attendants and an orderly came out and grabbed her. Shrieking, she pivoted and sunk her teeth into the orderly’s face. He screamed as she ripped away his ear and part of his cheek. The attendants backed off, looking confused and terrified.
    I couldn’t move. There was a crowd of people behind my truck, and in front of me, the woman. She waved her arms like windmills, gibbering and drooling. Then she stared at me through the windshield, her metallic eyes cold and dead. I recognized that look.
    Detective Van Gundy appeared, his gun drawn. He pushed the wounded orderly away and waved the others back. I saw the fear on his face as he took aim.
    “Lie down on the ground! Now!” the policeman said.
    She ignored him. He shot her twice in the chest. I saw two holes in her the size of quarters but no blood. She kept coming. The detective wiped his face with his coat sleeve, took careful aim and fired point-blank at her head.
    The bullet tore through her forehead and exited out the back of her head, leaving a huge hole and shattering the windshield of a nearby car. As the car alarm went off, the woman dropped to her knees, her tongue lolling in her bloody mouth like a writhing red eel, and she fell face first onto the pavement, motionless.
    I shut off my engine and got out as the cop closed in, his gun still drawn. People all around stared. The two attendants helped the wailing orderly, his face covered in gore, back into the hospital.
    Still shaking, Detective Van Gundy holstered his gun and turned to me with haunted eyes. “Eighth one this week,” he said.

 

    I didn’t think I could drive, so I sat in my truck and stared at nothing. My cell phone rang. Holly. Her heaving voice came loud and close through the truck’s speakers. I tried to get out of her what had happened.
    “She was here! She—”
    “What? Who?”
    “That girl! Missy! ”
    I looked to see if Detective Van Gundy was anywhere nearby. “Are you okay?”
    “I don’t know—I guess. She tried breaking into the house.”
    “Okay, hang on.”
    Steeling myself, I started the engine and maneuvered out of the parking lot, past the police who had cordoned off the area where the crazy woman had been shot. “I’m coming home. Are you somewhere safe?”
    “I’m in the basement. I don’t know if she found a way in. Dave, I’m scared.” Her breath came out in short, choppy bursts. There was a