Punk Losers vs The Living Dead

Seventy Degrees of Death

**If the title didn't clue you in, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH

Ernie looked down at the two individuals currently piled onto the sofa in his break room. Well, he called it a break room. Really it was the same room as the morgue, embalming station and anything else done behind the scenes for a funeral. But he did have a fridge, coffee pot and donated pleather sofa in the far right corner, just by his desk. And it wasn't really false advertising seeing as he was his one and only employee.

Burt and his nephew looked awful if Ernie was being honest. Burt, who he'd seen a few times around the parking lot his funeral home and the medical supply shared, seemed to be completely composed of wax and sweat. His breath was laboured. And Ernie was unsure but thought he heard the familiar rattle in the man's chest that would preface his last breaths.

The boy was in no better shape which Ernie found particularly upsetting probably because of his age. He was so young, couldn't be more than nineteen. He was shaking like a leaf and for every breath he exhaled a low moan would follow. His limbs seemed almost to be contracted to his body, muscles tightening up like Mr. Walker on the gurney.

Rigor Mortis?

Ernie shook away the thought. No, these two weren't dead. They were conscious and talking. Moments ago they had been walking! They were just very sick and he knew he had to get to them some help.

"Still feel sick?"

He inquired, the body parts and split dogs were almost reduced to ashes. And yet, Burt and Ben seemed to only be getting sicker. A fact that brought Ernie to the conclusion that their condition was not just the excitement of the night.

Burt nodded while Ben managed to grunt in the affirmative.

Frank and Ernie came close to them, squatting to get on their level for a closer inspection.

"Sick how?"

"Like I wanna puke," Ben said, his voice hushed, "God, and I feel weak. Like my arms are made of lead."

"And a terrible headache." Burt agreed.

"And I'm cold. Really cold. Like my bones are ice," Ben shivered just thinking about how cold his skin was, "I think it was that stuff. The gas Burt and I breathed in, in the basement."

"Stuff, what stuff?"

"The stuff in that canister. When it cracked open the gas shot right into our faces. We breathed it in and then passed out for, for I don't know how long."

Burt nodded his head unwilling to waste what little energy he had on a 'yes'.

Ernie carefully placed the palm of his hand on Ben's forehead. He expected the skin to be hot to the touch. But it wasn't even warm. Ben's forehead felt like the same temperature as the sofa or the wall.

"Strange," he muttered to himself before exchanging a concerned glance with Frank, "we better call an ambulance."

...

"Eds! Eds, hold on. I'm coming!"

Richie's feet had never pounded up a set of steps so quickly. He reached the third step, or rather the hole where the third step used to be. That thing was still coming after him. It was either too stubborn or too stupid to realise Eddie had fallen through the stairs and was essentially easy pickings. Richie shuddered at the idea.

He squeezed through the gap in the steps at full tilt, dropping only a few inches to the concrete below. Eddie was huddled in the corner either unable or afraid to move.