Wellington Street

In which we take a stroll down a very strange lane.

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Building 11 "The Corpse Sitting Shotgun"

“I reached my car by sunset, as best as I could tell. He was where I had left him, propped up in the passenger seat.

I've learned the hard way that in this place the dead don't always stay where you leave them. But he was, and as I suspected they had not aged a day. They smelled like roadkill, but were no more dead than when I had left them a week ago, if that makes any sense.

The color of the sunset cutting through the fog would have almost granted a color to his skin, but it wasn't the case. The body may have not decomposed further, but there was no mistaking it for a dead body. I entertained the thought that that smile was them being happy to see me, and not just the lack of lips around the mouth.

I dismissed the thought quickly before I lingered too much on how insane that sounded. Almost as insane as keeping a body in your front seat. I mean, what would you do in my shoes? Just leave it where I found it?

They looked exactly like me, only dead and maybe slightly older. I don't have a twin, not that it would matter. I am sure that this is not anything close to reality as I understand it. I've considered a few times whether or not this is just a very vivid nightmare, or if I had lost my mind. But the sequence of events is too linear. The details are too crisp. I fumble through my journal in the back seat and the entries read as they should, in the order they should be.

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