Zombies? Hello? What is Candice talking about? Those are our own bodies, lying there, eyes filmed over, limbs akimbo. We're not exactly raising the dead, we are—getting up, so to speak. Assuming the idea works, that is. I've got a solid UK background, mother born in Manchester, father in Cornwall, not a drop of Caribbean blood, not a trace of voodoo in me.

Circumstances breed opportunities, as they say. Or disasters, depending on perspective.

"Listen, if you have a better idea..."

"I don't," Amelie says, her voice curiously flat. "Nor does Candice. You did a brilliant job with the rat, so why not take over our own bodies?"

"What if they start rotting once they're out of this place?" Candice asks. "It would be a trifle embarrassing if we walk around and our fingers drop off."

"In these zombie films—"

"Amelie, please," Candice says. "We're not talking film. Or novel. This shit only works in fiction, not in reality. I'm not saying we shouldn't, just that we need to be a bit careful here."

"The rat thing worked."

"Yeah," I say. "Until it didn't. I was pretty close to getting stuck in a rodent. On the other hand, those are no rodents. Nor are they somebody else's corpses. They're ours. That's bound to make a difference."

Amelie sighs. "We've got no choice, have we? Frankenstein's monster worked just fine, didn't have bits dropping off. You read too many horror stories. No matter what we do, we need to do it fast. In case you didn't notice, the light out there isn't dawn."

"No?" Candice says.

I stare at the window. She's right. What made me think of the coming day has been replaced by a freaky flickering in shades of magenta, ruby red and bile green. Dread pools in the place where my stomach used to be.

"I'd say, this is an energy discharge. Which means the ghosts have started their blasted apocalypse."

Nothing like the end of the world to make people stop yakking and start the action. Five minutes later we're all agreed that our best chance is to will ourselves into our bodies and take it from there.

"If it's still night, we could just go out there anyway, can't we? No need to bother with our bodies." Candice scratches her head. "Strike that, no, I guess we can't. As ghosts go, we're too new and will be pretty weak. As zombies we might be able to kick some ass."

Amelie snorts. "Well spoken. Let's do this."

We place ourselves around the sorry heap that used to be Third Eye Investigations. My corpse is closest, and I kneel next to it. I look strangely peaceful given how I died. But that's not how I feel. Instead, there's a cauldron of molten lava bubbling away inside of me. Those bastards. They'll regret ever taking us on.

The fury is great since it propels my consciousness straight into my body.

No buzzing or sizzling this time, none of the confusion I experienced when I possessed the rat. Instead, one moment I'm looking down at myself, the next my eyes snap open. To be honest, they don't actually snap, it's more as if they come unglued. They're all rubbery, sticky and yucky and whatever light remains in this place hurts.

I sit up.

Correction—every bit of me is one monster sore. No wonder the zombies in those films are always so grumpy, the poor darlings are in monstrous pain. With a groan, I drag my dangling limbs from the floor and stand, hunched over and panting, while my brain seems to be going around and around on a hellish carousel.

Somebody grunts. I drag myself around and find Amelie close to me, one eye staring at the ceiling, one focusing on the floor.

"You're squinting, you need to fix that," I say. Well, to be honest the words sound more like, "Yuffsquin, younfss."

It's because of that floppy thing in my mouth I believe to be my tongue.

"Pfff," she says, or words to that effect.

Clonk. Clatter. When I squint into the gloom to work out what's going on, I see Candice staggering about. A metal bed frame lies on the floor and as I watch on, she staggers into the next, toppling it over until that too crashes to the floor.

If things don't get better soon, we need to vacate our bodies in a hurry. This is just plain embarrassing and will get us nowhere.

Outside, the light show is increasing, the colours now truly psychedelic.

I turn around, slowly so I don't keel over and lurch to the entrance. A few steps on I seem to have found a rhythm and walking becomes easier, and the pain torturing every nerve end in my poor body is easing off. The entire experience now reminds me of a bicycle crash followed by a humdinger of a hangover.

Not good, but not quite so debilitating anymore. The bit with the speech I save up for later.

If there is a later. How are we supposed to stop the apocalypse like that? Even in ghostly form it was impossible. In full zombie mode, there's not a lot of what Amelie calls "ass-kicking" going on. Instead, if I don't watch it, I'm going to crash-land on my backside. I have to admit, though, walking helps. It gets the juices flowing, and my limb control is better. Funny how something once so simple, so obvious as walking, can suddenly become a real challenge.

We really take too much for granted.

Somehow, I have reached the end of the corridor, the shuffling sounds coming from behind reassuring me my fellow zombies are also on their way.

There's a big cargo door, or something like that, once painted in institutional pea soup green, now dented, scratched, and paling. The door gapes open, which is a huge relief. While a little better, I'm still not quite up to taking the house down.

Not easy to squeeze through the gap, but somehow I manage. Amelie doesn't fare quite so well. She puffs like a frustrated dragon until she pops from the gap. Candice, however, manages without problems.

The pulsating glow in the heavens above us has changed to white, so I can actually see the faces of my partners. Good job too. Their eyes are more focused now, and they seem to have the thing with the moving sussed quite well. Hope surges in my chest.

Hey, this zombie thing is actually working.

Even my tongue is willing to cooperate, but to be sure I take it easy on the words.

"Weapons?"

"No good," Amelie says. She inclines her head at the sky, where beams of orange strobe past the stars.

Hang on, the stars.

There seem to be an awful lot of them. A long time ago I went skiing up in Scotland, back when we still had winters. The air had crackled with cold and the night was scattered with stars, so many more than I'm used to in London. No pollution, the instructor had said. Or not quite as much of it as in the big cities.

But this here is something else entirely. The stars are literally crowding the heavens like a swarm of suicidal fireflies.

Are the ghosts contracting the universe?

"Shit," says Candice, sounding very much like her former self.

My thoughts entirely.

A salty breeze sails through the dilapidated loading bay we are standing in. Two ambulances sit at the far side, their tyres flat, their windshields broken.

"Where are we?" Amelie asks. Her voice is still slightly slurred, but she too seems to have regained control of her tongue.

"Seaside? Just don't know where."

Then it comes to me: The old mental asylum in the woods above Exhead-on-Sea. According to the union reports, there has been massive paranormal activity for months now. Any attempt at following up was foiled. The ghost busting teams sent vanished without a trace. At some point, no more teams were sent, but the ghosts must have decided to nip any potential opposition in the bud, by luring the busters into their blasted train. Makes me wonder how many of us lie hidden in those decrepit chambers.

When I share my insight with my colleagues, Candice bangs a fist on the door to the loading bay while Amelie curses under her breath.

"Irrelevant now," I say. Too many r's in that word, but I can manage. "First we find them, then we stop them."

Another glance at the surreal glitter over our heads makes me quake in my trainer. Yes, trainer, singular. I somehow seem to have lost a shoe, another reason walking wasn't all that easy. The problem is quickly solved, simply by slipping out of the remaining footwear.

Something small and furry dashes over my hand, up my leg and disappears into the pocket of my vest.

The rat is back.

Either the sudden reappearance of the rodent, or the fiery display above us finally jogs my brain into action, and I remember something I learned when possessing the little critter now poking its twitchy nose from my pocket.

An icy hand seems to trace my spine.

I know why the ghosts chose this place, and how they are going to make the apocalypse happen. What I don't know is how to stop them from doing it.

Wordcount 16599

This chapter is dedicated to fellow ONC participant darthwitty  and her hilarious "Sam Walker and the Grim Reaper Service".