"Well," Jackson interposed as he peered from the shore across the opaque, windless sea, "I, for one, won't be taken alive. It's time to hit them where they're strongest: right in the middle of their zombie hive. Who's with me?"
Badger, or so they called him because of his insistence on black face camouflage, was the first to assent. "You can't count me in."
"It's not likely we'll survive this, Dennis. What will come of the children if we're unsuccessful?"
Dr. Weston wasted little breath on trifles, so when he spoke, people tended to listen. This time, however, he was overruled by Jackson. "We're more likely to lose them if we remain here, Weston. I don't think we have a choice."
The three of them, the only males left on the island, hastened with pitchforks and stones to battle their undead foes. It was the biological nuclear blast that had left them in this state, with more zombies and less technology.
As the men neared the hive, Jackson couldn't help but think about his most cherished moments as a child when his father brought him through this self-same forest, thick with foliage and memory. Just then, as he and the men raised their pitchforks to enter, they found themselves circled by men who looked just like them. Turning in silent recognition to each other, Jackson and Watson turned again to find Badger had been shot with a sizable weapon; and yet his mangled body did little to even phase the youth.
"What the..." managed Jackson. It was only after a second assault on them, mortars landing precious feet from them, that they understood their fate for the first time. What would normally be to them critical injuries instead left them only puzzled, until they understood clearly a projected voice in a language known by only two sets of people: the military intelligence community from whence they knew the voice came, and the zombies themselves.
Badger, or so they called him because of his insistence on black face camouflage, was the first to assent. "You can't count me in."
"It's not likely we'll survive this, Dennis. What will come of the children if we're unsuccessful?"
Dr. Weston wasted little breath on trifles, so when he spoke, people tended to listen. This time, however, he was overruled by Jackson. "We're more likely to lose them if we remain here, Weston. I don't think we have a choice."
The three of them, the only males left on the island, hastened with pitchforks and stones to battle their undead foes. It was the biological nuclear blast that had left them in this state, with more zombies and less technology.
As the men neared the hive, Jackson couldn't help but think about his most cherished moments as a child when his father brought him through this self-same forest, thick with foliage and memory. Just then, as he and the men raised their pitchforks to enter, they found themselves circled by men who looked just like them. Turning in silent recognition to each other, Jackson and Watson turned again to find Badger had been shot with a sizable weapon; and yet his mangled body did little to even phase the youth.
"What the..." managed Jackson. It was only after a second assault on them, mortars landing precious feet from them, that they understood their fate for the first time. What would normally be to them critical injuries instead left them only puzzled, until they understood clearly a projected voice in a language known by only two sets of people: the military intelligence community from whence they knew the voice came, and the zombies themselves.
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