“you son of bitch.” tears crystallizing to dark eyelashes like snowflakes before they could even hope to fall, cameron shoved the dead man back to the ground with the heel of her hand digging into his slowly decaying chest. by the looks of him, he’d only recently turned. the cold, wintry cheyenne weather could preserve rotting flesh for so long--but eventually, living or dead, THINGS FALL APART. even in her frenzied attack, cameron could appreciate this knowledge as she shoved the blade of the knife into the man’s throat, using both hands to sever his spinal cord. beneath his dark hair and decaying flesh, the resemblance was too uncanny for comfort. all these years and every time cameron drove a knife into undead flesh she was reminded of the first time she’d plunged a blade into someone LIVING--long before the outbreak and its many horrors, she had lived her own feature-length film; THE FINAL GIRL in her own nightmare. pushing back from the familiar face ( or was it truly just a trick of the haunting moonlight, reflecting from the snow? ), cameron felt her tailbone hit the icy street with a cold thud as she kicked away from the body--backing up into the very ALIVE legs of someone whom had been watching her all along.
