#hellslegion

          the symphony of groans, moans and growls alike were crescendoing just behind the measly piece of wood that kept the undead segregated from the two—- just ellis and francis, best of buds, together in the foxhole, watching through cracks as flaccid arms and half-hearted feet pound and shuffle into their makeshift refugee shelter.

          ellis, with his gun pressed into his chest plate, watches with eyes oweled as they accrue; man oh man, were they splitting in half by the second? must be something of a hundred of them now, a whole clot, maybe more . . . a vivid string around the finger------  be awful careful with those boomer bile containers . . . ahem, ellis, ahem. they’re still covered in it, and it reeks to high heaven. he should have taken better care in securing it to himself, but hindsight is twenty-twenty.