Germs by D.P. Southwell

The bag was delivered at noon. Dr. Sherman smiled carefully when he opened it and wider after inspecting it. It was a body bag.

Body bags were germproof, like all of Dr. Sherman’s favorite things. Body bags were to contain decomposing – he blanched – flesh. Dr. Sherman had nightmares about germs.

This lab room – this stainless and porcelain castle – was a sanctuary. But there was one problem with the sanctuary: him.

So he spread the bag on the floor and unfolded it. It was inside-out, black and coffinous.

It was inside out so he could seal it from the inside.

D.P. Southwell was born in the woods of north Michigan, and has been a roughneck, roustabout, surveyor, farmhand, and currently works in publishing.  He is married to the girl of his dreams and has a veritable dirigible of a baby.  He has been bitten by a tiger (true story).