Zombies running round the corner, shotguns ringing out, recorded music in the promenade, and hints of winter, falling snow, not sticking yet, gentle glass drifting in the air. Our breath, in white puffs, are seen. My finger is cold against the trigger, sluggish.
Bang, bang, bang, the guns sound through the night.
The roaming dead hunger on the earth, but the snow is still falling from heaven. The walking corpses moan in the night, but the day is coming.
Like a madman, he swings his bat, and he pummels the zombie to the ground. The aluminum bat rings and rings.
Tale Told 