Two Black Feathers
Science-fiction had prognosticated an undead apocalypse, in one form or another, for decades, but no one really expected it to happen.
Man's arrogance, Man's lust for power and superiority was just a terrible accident waiting to happen. The fallout came from far away for many, but ultimately there was nowhere to hide from the Necrobiological Reanimation Virus, that withered the limbic system leaving only the primitive, instinctual hindbrain to drive existence.
Hungry.
Shambling.
Scurrying.
Wheezing.
Rasping.
Biting.
Tearing.
Always hungry.
Survivors wondered why literature bothered to called them anything other than what they were: mindless, ravenous, zombies.
There is no cure, but people still hope.
There is no immunisation, but people still search.
There is no fate but death should you be infected…
… or is there?
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