Like a storm playing out its song in the emptiness of the stilled mind, gunshots ring out. They call to whoever may hear and whisper tales of their origin, of their reason. A stilled mind would wonder upon the reason for each note trying to glimpse into the musician’s heart. An understanding to be reached.
Yet the undead care not for understanding the art of the gunshots. They care not for the message the shooter sends out. They care as much as a bug cares about the porch light. It is a beacon more complex than they could comprehend that simply calls them. Or maybe the undead deserve more credit than that. Maybe they know gunshots usually mean bodies.
Maybe they know it as a dinner bell.
The undead that dot the desert move towards the thunderclaps of chaos, the bloody confrontation of wolves and sheep. Whether they get there before or after the slaughter ends doesn’t matter as long as the actual dead still remain to be feasted upon. But if they get there before the slaughter, it shall only double in its bloodbath. (more…)