He laid on the old beat up mattress on the floor, staring at the spot on the ceiling. It was dark brown, water maybe, or maybe even an old bloodstain. The curtains hanging in the window began to rustle. The breeze brought in the putrid smell of the crowds of undead wandering the streets outside, their moans never ceasing.
How did he get here? The past few weeks had been a nightmarish blur, running for his life from masses of undead cannibals. He’d had nightmares about this very thing since he was a child, ever since he had seen Return of the Living Dead. Those zombies couldn’t be killed. The ones in the Romero movies could be though; you just had to destroy their brains.
At least he was kind of prepared for this sort of thing. He chuckled to himself, “Who knew Romero would be so accurate? Can’t…
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