(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

I blinked, “So we’re locked in again? Oh that’s just bleeding great.”
“Good news is I scored us a couple of dates with a couple of those
grey-skinned gals. Zombie Worker #11 and #91. I think they’re sisters.”
“Morte...”
“We have so much in common-”
“Morte!” I hissed, “Can we just try to get out of here?”
We made another round about the floor, trying to pick up any tools to help
with our escape. I sifted through logbooks, picked at a few odds and ends,
sighing. A few charms were scattered about here and there, a bit of gold,
but no keys or information of real importance. I knew I was trapped again.
Until I came across him.
The corpse looked much like any other, but his skin was fresher, his gait a
little more determined and less awkward. The number “821” was carved
into his forehead, and his lips had been stitched closed. The faint smell of
formaldehyde emanated from the body, musk and pungent. And yet...
I walked up to the creature, “So... seen anything interesting going on?”
The zombie blinked in surprise, “Eh? Wut?”
I crossed my arms, “Why are you disguised as a corpse?”
The ‘zombie’s’ eyes grew wide, and he tried to respond behind stitched lips;
he had a peculiar half-frightened, half-angry expression plastered on his
face. “Hoo YU? Wut yu wunt?”
Let’s just say I had woken up in a bad mood today, and I wasn’t going to take
any cheek right now. Except maybe from Morte, “Why don’t you tell me
what you’re doing here before I call the guards.” I leveled a piercing gaze at
him.
The zombie's expression crumbled. “Nuh-nuh-no! Dun’t cull th’ gards!” He
looked frightened. “Muh-muh-me spy un Duhstees, say wut I see.
Nuh-Nuthin’ more.”
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