This Tuesday was no different. I was the first one into the office, about seven in the morning and I had to say I wasn't thrilled. On my desk were piles of coroner's reports and receipts I had to fill out and return before the city could pay me and my people for our services, not to mention the myriad clutter that accumulates on any desk when it is rarely used. There was yet another letter from the offices of Carver and Caldwell, the deader's rights attorneys. I tossed it in the trash where every other letter from the pair had gone. I looked for my coffee cup, found it buried beneath some files from the last week and I gave it a hard eye. Something green was floating on the top and I decided it was best to let it lie for now. I sat down, picked up a pen and was just about to start in on the papers burying me when the phone rang.

"Charles Stone Undertaking," I answered, my voice still gruff and hoarse as it always is before my first cup of coffee. "What can I do for you this morning?"

There was silence on the other line, either from panic, shock or the virus taking hold in yet another unsuspecting person. I waited, knowing that if they were still alive they would answer soon.

"Y-yes," a little girl's voice very shakily responded from the other end. "I need help." I could hear a low, guttural moaning in the background now, something clawing at the door.

"What's going on?" I asked, scrambling to find a piece of paper to take her address with.

"It's mama," she said, sniffling a bit as she talked. "I have the flu and mama stayed home to watch me. Uncle Fred came by and then mama fell asleep on the couch and when she got up she tried to bite me."

I swallowed hard. How old was this kid? Obviously old enough to know a ghoul when she saw one. And smart enough to call an undertaker. "Have you been bitten, sweet heart?" I asked next, unsure if I wanted to know the answer.

She was quiet again, leaving me to listen as mommy dearest began banging on the door. "N-no," she finally answered. "I don't think so. Please hurry."

She was frantic. What child wouldn't be when they're trapped in a house with a ravenous corpse? "Where do you live?" I asked next, hoping she knew her address.

"I don't know," she said as she began to sob. "I can't read the street sign because of the glare from the building next door. Mama said if this ever happened to call the number on the side of the building. Please hurry!"

I jumped out of my seat, dragging the phone and half a dozen papers with me as I ran to the window. I was on the corner of Vine Street and Thompson Lane. Thompson Lane was all business but Vine was an old subdivision. My window looked out on the intersection of the two roads. All our windows faced the sun as it rose in the mornings, making it difficult to see anything but the phone number written on the outside wall. I could see an old white house directly across the street, not to mention a little girl standing by the window looking back at me.

"Go hide in your closet," I told her as I waved out the window. "I'll be there in a few minutes to get you."

The line went dead and I didn't bother to put the phone back on its cradle. I ran to the large vault door in the back of the office, the one that had been an embalming room back in the day and put in the combination. The lock popped and I opened the door to the armory and quickly found what I needed. An AR-fifteen police special, two magazines and an extra clip for my Berretta nine-mil. I shut the vault door and raced out of the office. I crossed Vine and Thompson like a man insane; it's amazing how quickly people manage to slow down when they see a man with an assault rifle running past them. I ran up the steps and onto the porch. I tried the door knob with no luck. Like everyone else in this city they thought they could keep the bad things out if they just turn the key and forget about it. I stepped back and raised the rifle up in the air. I struck the old knob as hard as I could with the butt of the gun and watched it break away. I leaned back and threw my foot into the side where the knob had been. The frame splintered and the door swung in.

There was a faint smell of rot in the house; she must have been decaying before she died. Sometimes the virus will eat away at pieces of flesh and muscle before you're dead. Necrosis can set in on contact in some instances and can leave lesions and sores until death and reanimation occur. She must have been bitten late Sunday or early Monday to have bought it and woken so quickly. I swept the down stairs first, insurance that I was alone before I went up to take care of mama. The living room was trashed, recliner over turned and the television broken by a human fist. Chunks of flesh were still in the broken screen. This one was extra violent which was never a good sign. I went back into the foyer where the splintered door was still dangling and looked up the narrow flight of stairs.

I could hear the moaning now, as well as the little girl sobbing. Only then did it occur to me how stupid this was. More than one undertaker had died over the last four decades by trying to sweep a house alone. Still, I flipped the safety off on the rifle and began my creeping ascent of the stairs. The design allowed me to place my back against a wall while looking up and out into the open hallway. I was three steps from the top when I saw the little girl's door; a neon pink sign said KAREN'S ROOM in bold letters about halfway up and there were heart stickers stuck around the knob. Mommy dearest was nowhere to be seen. I licked my lips and took another step.