Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

I'm dead.

I don't want to believe it. At the same time, I shouldn't be all that surprised. I took a bullet to the head.

"I dragged you over to the camper," Dee explains, "you were bleeding, but not too badly. I mean, that's what I thought. That stupid mask is all red, so not like I could—" she shakes her head. "But the bleeding really wasn't that bad. And you were breathing. And muttering. I didn't know what to do. I mean, between the two of us, you were — are — the doctor. I-I thought about going to the hospital, but then I didn't know how to explain how you got the bullet wound, or how I look, or if I could just pull the bullet out myself." She bites her lip. "Listen, I could've done it. It—it was right there, just on the surface. Sticking out. You—you got lucky. Somehow."

"I guess I didn't get lucky enough." I sigh.

She frowns. "Before I even got a chance to do anything, though, you... threw up. You shook a little. Probably some kind of seizure. I tried holding you down. I read somewhere yelling helps keep people conscious. I'm not sure what I expected. At some point you just suddenly stopped moving. No breathing. You twitched a little. And that was that."

I'm dead. And yet, I'm still sitting across Dee, on the same sofa she'd left my corpse lying.

"That's when it happened." She paces around the room, trying to figure out how to even explain it. "It's like you—you started disintegrating. I can't even call it melting, because it wasn't melting, you didn't melt or anything, it's just like you were there the one moment, body and everything, and the other — poof. Gone."

"Body and everything." I mutter.

"Well. Clearly not everything."

I get up, stumbling over to the bathroom. I am dead. Even if Dee wasn't here to tell the tale, the fact of the matter is I don't feel like myself. It's not just the lack of pain. I don't feel anything. I don't breathe. I don't even feel like I'm consciously moving anymore; likely because the concept of consciousness has evaporated. Much like my body, apparently.

When I look in the mirror, I see nothing. I am here, but there's no me. No. Wait. I have to look closer. Something just moved. Something moves as I'm moving my arm. It's here. It's in the mirror. It's here, in the bathroom.

Look closer.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

Where I once stood there now stands a shadow. The shadow wears my clothes. There's dried blood all over the shirt.

I can see a faint outline of what used to be my face. As I stare into it, it seems to gain more mass. A black, mold-like substance now makes up who I am. Is it really even me, though? Is this even my face? Is there even a face here? Cliché as it might sound, the eyes being the window to the soul still rings true to me; and yet, I have no eyes to discern. I touch my cheek. The two-week old stubble is now gone. The surface of my 'skin' is smooth. It's like touching the surface of water.

I mouth vowels. My 'jaw' does appear to move as I do so, but not in ways that make sense to me. When I try doing an 'O' it looks like I'm doing an 'E.'

"My name is Jacob." I whisper. The black mass forming my face vibrates along. This only leads me to the conclusion that I have no 'mouth.' Therefore, it is unlikely I have a 'jaw' either, beyond its basic outline. I'm at least capable of making sound. That's something.

I manage to turn the faucet. I'm capable of interacting with the world, too, then. Okay.

I splash water on my 'face.' It makes contact. I don't feel refreshed, but I do feel the moment it touches me, numb as the sensation might be.

I look back up at the mirror.

There's something else. Surprisingly, stuck to the side of my head is something of Earthly design. A metal plate. There's something on it. Rather, lodged in it. I touch it. It's a bullet.

The bullet, I presume.

Tragic part is, the plate and the bullet are the only two things that have an explainable presence right now.

I step out of the bathroom.

"Just to be clear, you can see me, right?" I ask Dee.

She nods. "You've also gotten... dense."

"Oh, I know, I feel myself getting dumber by the minute. But that's nothing new." I can't help but stare at my hands. "What the hell is this?"

"I thought you'd know."

"First-time dying, I'm afraid." I admit.

"You're more of an expert on the whole thing than me."

"Even experts face the unknown eventually. I mean this—" Some idea. Any idea. Whatever comes to mind. Think. "It's like the reverse happened."

"The reverse?" Dee sits on the sofa.

"Someone dies. Their soul or essence or whatever leaves and their body's left behind. With me, it's somehow the other way around. The body's gone. The 'whatever' remained." I absent-mindedly touch the bullet. "Even then, though, I look nothing like you or Toaster Gh—" I press my 'finger' against the bullet.  "Nothing like you when you step out of your objects. You look like a normal person, just more... transparent. I'm literally nothing."

"Nothingness doesn’t have a voice." she says.

“God does, I hear.”

“Whoa, look at him. Already thinkin’ he’s God.”

“Only in the sense that I’m finding my own existence is very questionable right now.”

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

"Maybe you were experimented on as a child and your body was, like, mutated to turn into black goo when you die?” Dee suggests. “Explains the shady metal plate. Probably made out of alien materials."

"The metal plate is because I was hit by a car." I point out.

"Banged with the wrong woman, huh?"

"I was ten."

She crosses her legs. "Maybe you were hit by the car as part of the conspiracy? Maybe they put in a lil' something-something during surgery and never told you?"

"Look, I'm not in the mood for this." I sigh, sitting back down.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

"Yeah. Sorry." She puts her hand on my shoulder. The black mass clings to her fingertips. She pulls back. "I mean, look, you're basically superhuman to begin with. You could talk to ghosts. Maybe that has something to do with this?"

"I don't think so. Mom could see you all, too. This never happened to her."

"Oh. I didn't. I didn't know your mom's—"

"It's fine."

I move my finger around the bullet. Finding a good grip on it, I manage to pull it out of the plate. Dee looks impressed. Have I gotten stronger? Could just be a lot easier than it looks. What with the lack of flesh and bone standing in the way.

“You’re taking it awfully well. All things considered.” Dee remarks.

“Pretty sure it’s because we’re taking all things into consideration that I’m handling it.” If I’m handling it. Maybe the realization just hasn’t set in. Am I going to stay like this forever? If this means I can’t die, what kind of ‘forever’ can I look forward to? No face. Barely a shape. Barely anything.

I look around me. The camper. Dee. The creases in her bandages. The shirts on the floor. The flicker of the laptop screen. I hear birds chirping. If I look outside, I’ll see a trail of blood leading from the gas station to here. My blood. Do I even have any blood anymore? Is it worth making myself bleed to check?

No. No, probably not.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

God, what's that squeaking?

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

I finally turn my head in the direction of the hamster cage. Ferdinand’s running on his little wheel.

I keep coming back my hands. Are they even mine?

“I’m scared, Dee.” I say.

I’m scared that they might crumble any moment now.

I’m scared that this might not actually be real. Maybe this is all just a desperate hallucination of a dying mind? Maybe all of this has been a hallucination since the start? Maybe I’ll wake up in an asylum any moment now. Maybe all of this will turn out to be some strange dream. Maybe I’m in Hell. Maybe this has all played out a million times as some for of elaborate torture.

Which explanation comforts me here?

Which explanation saves me?

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

Do I need to be saved?

What am I being saved from here?

“Juice…” Dee whispers.

Can’t go out in public like this. But not like I’ve ever been all that social. Can’t go out to eat. But I can’t remember the last time I’ve been to a restaurant. Can’t hold a normal job. But not like that’s ever been a problem.

I’m dead.

But nothing’s changed, has it?

I think that scares me the most.

My hands are still here. Still not crumbling.

Except Dee’s bandaged hand is resting in one of them. Once again, the surface wobbles to her touch. It moves on its own. I feel it sticking to her. Slithering between her fingers. Crawling underneath her bandages. Resting only the moment it touches her skin. She doesn’t pull away this time.

I shake my head. “We never should’ve stopped here.”

“I should’ve gone with you. Your knee—”

“One of your arms is practically being held together by paperclips right now. It’s not your fault.” I tell her. “Really, the only one to blame is the guy who shot me. And he only did it because he was scared of Spider-Man.”

“We’ll blame Spider-Man, then.”

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

Dee draws closer, pressing her body against mine. I feel myself deform, ever so slightly adjusting to her shape.

“Hey, dead man.” she says. “Welcome to the club.”

“Hey, dead girl.” I say. “Your club sucks.”

“Dying sucks. Just the nature of things.”

“Don’t know how to tell you this, but becoming black jello-O isn’t exactly natural.” Then again, they’d probably say the same thing about people in toasters.

“Okay. We’ll form our own sub-club.” She pokes my cheek.

“Sub-club. Club-sub. You know, all this sandwich talk is making me hungry.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“No, it isn’t. Fine, what’s the sub-club?”

“The ‘Cool Dead People’ club. Just you and me.”

“Not even gonna include David Bowie?”

“We’re too exclusive, sorry. Two desperados on the road. One’s a zombie, the other is Wobble Man.”

“Wobble Man?”

“Wobble-wobble.” She gives me a light shake. And I do, indeed, wobble.

I laugh. “Alright, then. I hereby call the first meeting of the ‘Cool Dead People’ club. What’s on the agenda?”

“Getting the hell out of here before the cops show up?”

“Mm-hm. Sounds decent, sounds decent. I don’t think I got the security footage from the gas station, though.” I remind her.

“Trust me, if they see you, the robbery will be the last of your concerns. Besides, not like they can positively ID you anymore.”

“Fair point. What next?”

“Next, we catch us a murderer.”

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

“Alright. And after that?”

She winks. “We see if that jell-O you’re made of is edible.”