195

Cream-colored moonlight cuts through the night air and somewhere a solitary owl hoots over the songs of crickets. The pile of boxes of left-over containers leans against the tall outer wall.

An explosion of howls echoes through the halls of the Cathedral. The zombies have broken in. In minutes, they will filter through the Cathedral, like feral rats through a maze, searching every corridor and crevice for food. Your heart races as the sound of the living dead intensifies, drawing closer to the hallway leading to the courtyard.

With one last look back at the Cathedral, you climb the boxes and lie across the wide ledge of the wall. A great chortling noise flows through the closed oaken door leading back into the Cathedral. As the last of your group leaps to the ground, you hang jump off the wall. The grass field extends in all directions, tall blades bending in the breeze. As soon as the group is ready, you rush over the dull green field for a dark path leading through the Old Pine Woods.

You meet the edge of the forest and break through a swatch of branches, beyond which the woods open into walkable terrain. Pine needles coat the ground, and at once, you spot a corpse splayed across a slender rock, propped like a scarecrow. The signs of the zombie infection coat his skin like a bad disguise, the flesh twisted and wrenched. You divert your eyes and cut away from the dead figure.

Moving along the path, you scan the vicinity for any movement. Bristly trees rattle in the swift breeze, reaching out thin tendril-like branches that slash your arms and legs. The fresh pine scent is masked by an earthy odor. You call back to the other survivors to keep pace, though you are unsure where you are even going.

A flash of motion some twenty feet ahead forces you to a halt. Heather bumps into your back. You wave everyone down. Your hands brush dry dead leaves on the path, which turn to ash under your fingertips. A dull green bush rustles. You listen and wait. Seconds fold into minutes and something tells you to wait. The only sounds you hear emanate from the group you lead: the scraping of worn-soled shoes, a clearing of a throat, a faint whisper.