Frank had been a CSI for years. He’d helped handle murders, suicides, accidents and even the results from a historical cannon firing gone wrong. He’d submerged himself in the comforting routine of photography, lab work, and the accompanying reams of paperwork. It was death, wrapped in a obscuring cocoon of bureaucracy.
This was just death.
Pale blue eyes with that familiar lifeless sheen, gazed up and him, confused and scared. The girl was in the last stages of rigor mortis, and he could see her twitch as she desperately tried to move. A whisper of a breath hissed out from lungs that still clung to the memory of life. In a few hours, she’d figure out she didn’t need to breathe, or eat, or sleep. Only then would the driving hunger for life send her out on the hunt.
She was the fourth this week and he needed her.