In the time it took the rest to awaken, Carrion acquainted herself with the corpse before her. She’d learned that while lying among the dead, it was best to become familiar with them rather than ignore the person they were and the thing they’d become. Besides the infestations that had taken residence beneath this woman’s skin, it was apparent that someone else was using this thing much like they were making use of everyone else in the room, herself apparently included, Carrion thought as she glanced down at the site where the needle had been pressed in.
It was impolite and unfair to judge the dead by how they got dead. It was kinder to focus on who they may have been in life, but this one was making it difficult, such were her features defined by her demise – flattened in all of the wrong places. Carrion wondered how the woman had died. Was it in this room? Was it by the hand of the person who brought them here? She felt unsafe again, backed into this corner, and she instinctively reached behind for her scythe; her hands only grasped at the loose fabric of her own outfit.
At first, everyone moved freely, reacted to the scene in their own way only to be suddenly slammed into caution. Like prey cognizant of being prey, the corridor’s residents froze, eyes dilating with adrenaline, the space’s acoustics momentarily clinging to the subtle rustle of dragging fabric and breathing.
“Well, this is very bad,” Alfred said to himself, not even aware he was breaking the silence, continuing the probe of his pockets.
Chela’s attention darted to him. “We should remain calm and quiet,” she said from her chair.
“What? Like that?” Tabitha half-whispered, pointing to the pair of eyes that glimmered in the dark spaces beneath an askew chair.