“Where’s the body?”

It couldn't be possible. I knew that. I was making preparations for her burial. She was dead.

Then where's the goddamn body?

COVID has stolen everything from me. My wife, my daughter, my job. Soon, my house. In a few weeks, I'll be kicked out of Suburbia and left to survive the cold winter with no shelter.

I was blowing the last of my money on a proper funeral, and now that has been fucked up, too. Because this morning, the morgue called and informed me that my daughter's body had been stolen. No camera footage. She was just gone.

Sweet Carly. She was just a toddler. She didn't deserve to die gasping for air.

We were so, so careful. But none of it mattered.

As I downed a third bottle of Oxy, waiting for the fucking end, the doorbell rang.

I opened it without looking, lurching drunkenly.

"Hi, Daddy." The girl who looked at him had wide, blue eyes and straw blonde hair. Her eyes were rimmed with red like a sick person.

I found the bodies.

My girl is leading them.

And as I feel the Oxy kicking in, I know that soon, I will join that army.