by James Frederick Leach
Vaden faced the wrong direction in the elevator and had entirely neglected to dress for work. His naked sternum pressed against another passenger’s suit. His bare pelvis butted a woman in business casual. His embarrassed co-workers attempted to clear their throats but otherwise rode in bemused silence. Since the blast, everyone in town coped differently with their loss. No one judged.
But Vaden felt superior — liberated — and couldn’t keep from grinning at the bald skull of the accountant, the hollow sockets of that receptionist. Radiation had burned away their flesh weeks ago. Why pretend? What good are clothes on skeletons?
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