The solace of night can find no sanctuary for these dead. Risen like the battalions of demons from every war's past. Ripened with the blood lust of new found flesh. Their continual screams echoed across every block in the bowels of the Lost City. In these outskirts was little, except for rubble. All was black except for the one streetlamp. It seemed to defy all reason, the light flickering on and off as it pleased. Damnation is a very strong word, but if the human race isn't damned, well, there isn't a word for it then.
Despite the lingering groan of hundreds of thousands of undead corpses, a noticeable arm appeared from behind a fallen truck. As fast as any hummingbird's swoop, the man's arm quickly grasped something metallic underneath the vehicle, then disappeared. Yellow eyes were seen darting back and forth, slowly scanning the nearly bare suburb.A single stiff corpse, who seemed to hurl all his body weight onto one leg, limped into sight. The eyes could be seen backing a few inches from the edge of the rubble. With his foot twisting with every drag of the other one, the dead passed onward and around the block. They always groaned, for some odd reason, maybe communication, maybe the sound of their lung-less breathing. As the body finally dissolved from sight from the reflection of heat on the concrete, the man crawled and edged his way under and on the other side of the truck. Fully erecting himself, and slightly stretching, he raised a rusted hammer up to the sky, gripping at the wooden handle.
He only seemed to be known for his fierce gaze, always peering. Those who have met him know him only as a scout, and only as a body. He seems have no passion, just a clear view of what he does. Those who have heard of him always know when he appears, for his eyes are an off yellow. Stories have been told that it was a mutation of the bacteria, that he was half-dead, full dead or a saint sent back. He was only man. A black mess of facial hair covered his entire neck, with the rest of his face hidden by a black beanie and a red bandana shielding his nose and mouth. As he took a few sore steps forward, his long black strips of clothing waved slightly behind him. Gauze wrapped around both upper arms and lower legs, further protecting his body. Another scream pierced the streets in which he occupied. The man stopped instantaneously. Gazing, he took a very long and slow view of everything around him. Then, in unconscious thought, his eyes stopped downward. Looking at the masses of broken down leather that made up shoes, he reached down. Balancing himself with one palm flat on the concrete, and the other wielding the chrome of his weapon, he knelt. His hand moved shakily gripping the wooden handle. Sweat could be seen collecting in the corners of his hand from gripping. Then, he lowered the hammer down to the concrete and with one swift action, tapped loudly. Suddenly, in a vicious flurry of action only known to those which have wielded weapons, two corpses flew out of a nearby gas stations. A flicker from the streetlamp even more so isolated the incident. A scream led way to two more after, and the charging commenced. All eight arms flailing and flinging wildly in animalistic pleasure. Of the two visible, one was a badly deformed female, cuts and burns and bites layering the entirety of her arms. The man was bloated and severely overweight. Too Slow. Too Easy. No Problem. A series of repetitive 'pops.' Both of the dead falling in a pelleted mess, and the barbaric victorious wail of warriors now able to live again. Than another. The man with the hammer trembled as he raised himself again, he let out some air he had been involuntarily holding and spoke.
"Man." He paused to let out another breath, "you sure as hell let 'em get close that time." Carefully, he proceeded forward and hovered over the mass of four bodies on top of each other. The two men with guns raised them valiantly in the air as the bigger one started arguing about who got who. The Hammerman spoke again.
"Don't you think they oughta have at least started to rot or something by now? They basically starve most of the time, they eat nothing but human..." With his eyes fixated on the dead, he trailed off.
"What 'cha mean?" The other men startled him. They really snuck up behind him. One was on either side, with the big man, who just spoke, to his left. They had both stopped bickering, and seeing the uneasiness that surrounded this place, quickly formed a group.
"I mean, a dead cow can almost disappear in seven days, except for bones. Humans take longer, but we all decay. Not these. I've seen some Lugs that I shot the first day the infection happened, in the exact same condition. It's been far too long. The dead look exactly as they did whenever the hell they died. Something is extremely different about these things, they are not meant to be here." All three men stared in silence for a short while.
"Alright, savior, if we need a philosophy lesson we'll let you know." The dark skinned man that stood to his right patted Hammerman on the back. Then, the man with the hammer turned towards the way he came, the two others started following closely behind with eyes searching constantly. The man that walked to Hammerman's left was almost as wide as he was tall. The extremely large, blonde haired man started to talk again, because silence leads to the uncanny, and that, no one wants to find.
"Yeah, those Lugs sure are easy prey. They just charge at you like a bull." He made a fingergun and low popping noises to imitate a gun. He grinned. "It's those Lookers you have to keep watching for, I lost my dog to one of those son's a bitches. Got up behind the garage and crawled under my barb-wire fence. That's a dirty whore if you've ever asked me." Both of the other men, completely absorbed in their own thoughts, said nothing. Getting another tingle on their neck hair, all three men simultaneously peered behind them to the view of nothing.
"Hey, Redline, you see that smoke over there?" The tall man pointed behind himself to the far left, back to the city. "It looks like an oil fire, you never know, we could find a hefty supply of gasoline. Devil's gold if I'd ever seen it." Both of the other men turned to stare at the fire. Hammerman spoke.
"It's quite a ways in there, least 3 miles. But. These dead can't start fires, at least not purposely. Must be either human or accident or a little of both." He stopped to ponder a second, both men stopping in turn. "No." as if reiterating would make himself feel better he stuttered before starting again, "No. It's probably not a good idea. The benefits may outweigh the cons, but still it's not safe enough."
"You're probably right." Redline, the dark skinned man, gazed longingly into the smoke that floated into the sky of the same color. The blonde shrugged, threw his hunting rifle idly over his shoulder, and continued his pace. The other two, with lives hidden deep inside the bones which tell no lies, stared into the concrete and walked silently.