“The dead, they’re like parasites. They wait ‘til you’re ill, ‘til you can’t defend yourself. Then they swarm in, like locusts after a bountiful crop. They attach themselves like leaches, feeding off our essence.”

Damn undertaker. This coffin was built for a midget, not a six-foot two ex-rugby player. He must have stuffed me in with a shoe horn. And the heat. If anyone’s coming to rescue me they’d