Doesn't that figure.
Kona stared at the steps where the city dwellers had stood berating him a few moments ago.
I was more accepted as a slave.
Kona stood in the middle of the ground floor of a ransacked store. All the shelves and tables that could be moved had been shoved against the doors and windows. Everything edible had been either put on the cart outside where it was now zombie padding, or taken upstairs by the last living city dwellers.
The shield elf sat cross-legged in the middle of the trash strewn floor and prepared for a few hours of meditation: the first chance he had had in over 3 days. He looked up at the top of the stairs where a town guardsman was eyeing him suspiciously. Then he stared at the door to the cellar, where 4 more destroyed zombies and the arm of the orc bard now lay.
"Yeah. No. That won't work." Kona grumbled and shifted around to face the blockaded entrance. The pounding and howling had stopped. There must have been almost 300 zombies on the other side of that door, but for the moment, they showed no interest in coming in.
...the arm of the orc...
The orc had seemed indifferent about cutting it off. Hells, he might have been the first to suggest it. The two big problems being - no one was sure if it WOULD stop the zombie infection eating his flesh, and, everyone agreed the infection didn't come from a wound BY a zombie. Apparently any wound could trigger it. Which meant, until this plague was ended, EVERY wound could trigger it.
Images played through his mind of the last bands of living souls on the planet: huddled, scavenging, and hacking off one body part after another until finally an infection hit something vital...
He gave a shudder and began his quiet chant, sinking into a trance of dark foreboding.
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