The zombie stumbled over the knotted deer trail. Falling, his ankle caught in the tangles of a long root, the monster lets out a cry—Was that fear? Pain?—and smashes its rotting face into the bedewed earth. The mist of the morning is still rising, and the zombie takes one last look at me through the swirling cloud. Its face, muddy and half fallen away into a skull, stares at me with unadulterated hunger. It tries to crawl forward, but its leg is caught, its arms merely digging furrows with its grasping hands. Then fog obscures, and I run.
Zombie Drabble in the Woods
Tale Told 