Slow shuffle, like a senile senior citizen. Shoulder to slumped shoulder. Your own odour, Eau de decay, bothers you no longer.
You’re at one with the crowd now.
Amidst this apocalypse, you experience an acceptance never found in life: not inside, doing time, nor in padded asylums.
The herd swerve, having heard a scream, moaning, closing in.
A young girl swings, smashing skulls, crushing brains. It’s not enough to save her.
The pack collapses while attacking.
As she’s torn in two, you catch her eye, offering a smile as you dig in.
Happy that your appetite can finally be satisfied.
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