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Tall, thin and fragile they were.
As they rose, the sun which sank into the horizon of the sick pink sky bid a silent farewell to the world which it then set upon.
Bid farewell to a world of love.
Bid farewell to a world of life.
Bid farewell to a world of hope.
Come morning, this now so subtle Earth would be enveloped in disaster.
In war and in famine.
When the sun rose once more, this once prosperous world was riddled in tragedy. Left as only a mere shadow of what it had once been. Its denizens now fought to keep their hears beating, to keep the blood running warm through their veins.
Yet in their hearts they knew that this fight would never push them closer to salvation.
They were alone.
They were horrified.
They were desperate.
They were hopeless.
A tall, bony man stood on the old, creaky front porch of his lonely hillside home, admiring the spectacle which was the sunset. He held in mind the knowledge that in mere moments, the hills and plains surrounding his home would be teeming with ravenous, bloodthirsty vermin.
Another night of dread would ensue.
Another night of fighting to stay alive.
Waking from his reverie, John Wilford now observed as the first of the flesh-eating beasts rose from it's makeshift grave. It's wretchedly thin, frail arms punched through the soggy pile of dirt in which it rested before it pulled itself up. The others soon joined.
They were so tall and gaunt.
John Wilford was used to their appearances, though. So used to the implausible strength which contradicted their weak appearances that he no longer feared when one came fumbling into his inadequately fortified home.
Everything was laced in a steely-blue film now as darkness sluggishly cast itself over the infinite plains in which John and the legion of the undead resided. John pulled off his worn, blue cap and tossed it aside as he walked back into his home, turning his back on the soon-to-be-chaotic scene. His eyes were devoid of life as he made his way to the living room in which he'd spent most of his lonely days now. Simply looking back on the beautiful life which he once had.
Looking back on the things which gave new meaning to life in an otherwise worthless world.
Outside, the undead now claimed the vacant land. They trudged up the hills and scavenged them for any delicious morsels.
There were none.
John, now in the coziness of his heavenly bed, bid farewell to another day on Earth. The crazed sounds of the voracious undead were haunting, and often times they were unbearable. John feared for the day when she would arrive at his doorstep, hungry not for his adoration, but for his brains.
For his flesh.
Sitting up now, on the edge of his bed, John uttered a hushed prayer and attempted to drift off into his own little world in which none of the atrocious events leading to the apocalypse had transpired, but sleep did not come. The ghastly moans and incoherent words coming from below him were edging him toward madness. In the previous days, he would have been more than happy to march out onto his porch and decorate the front of his beloved home with them, but no longer could he bring himself to further taint his soul and the only landmark which mattered to him.
Madness could not-would not-win him over any longer.
Only when called for would he massacre their endless hordes.
John laid, facing upward, on his bed now as he intrepidly listened to the approaching footsteps. Gentle and feeble. He listened to their moans of absolute ecstasy as they neared their first meal in weeks. Greed would overtake them now, for only one was permitted to feast on such a delicacy.
Their greed would become their demise.
As the quiet footsteps ceased at his doorway, John needed not wonder what famished brute may be waiting their, blissfully ignorant that it's end was near. The silhouette of a tall, scrawny predator admiring its prey from a dangerously close distance.
John closed his eyes and sucked in a sharp breath as he reached over the side of his bed and grabbed his shotgun.
He cocked it.
And the rest was history.