Autopsies tend to leave fairly large scars. Ones that, if seen, generally inspire questions. Lots of them. Looking down at the one on my chest, I could tell that mine would almost certainly be no exception.
You wouldn’t think it would be hard to find clothes in a morgue. There are, after all, lots of fresh cadavers lying about. Surely their garments must be kept somewhere nearby. But, no. I guess they’re hidden in a secret vault deep underground, because they only thing I could find that even remotely resembled clothing was a dirty green surgical gown.
Escaping proved to be an even greater challenge. The principle problem with trying to check out of a morgue posthumously is that if any of the morticians see you, you’re fucked. This is because you are supposed to be dead. Generally speaking, dead people do not get up and make a break for the exit. When they do, it usually causes a ruckus. A heavily armed one, at that.
And things don’t get any better once you get outside.