The early-July night wind had blown midsummer's sultry heat into Cold Crow City, yet in the dense Forest on its northern outskirts, the air was clammy and cold, like dew congealed on a tombstone.
Wild-grown blades of grass were pressed low by the figures flashing past, then sprang back up, rustling softly, accompanied by the grinding of rats' teeth.
Two hundred Plague Tooth Assassins swept through the silent Forest like a tide of gray.
"Move it, faster! You half-starved swine!"
Shrek cursed under his breath, his tiny bean-green eyes flickering in the dark with a mix of terror and viciousness.
A heavy iron canister was strapped to his back with leather bands, the liquid sloshing inside like Death's own spit.
Just pour this stuff into the wells of Cold Crow City, and in less than three days, the human trash living there will turn into Purgatory's walking dead!
