The apocalypse was only eleven months old. The world already felt like a rotted corpse. On this stretch of highway leading toward the Southern Highlands, the morning air was thick with a mist that didn't belong to nature. It was a necrotic fog. Designed to hide the two General-class zombies and their horde of two hundred.
Victor stood at the apex of the caravan. He had only been Level 100 for a matter of hours, and the power was a violent, churning ocean inside his chest. He watched the Generals—monsters who had been human less than a year ago—dragging their heavy, rusted chains. He heard them call Felicity "Golden." He saw them look at his mate as if she were a prize to be harvested.
The air around the caravan didn't just vibrate; it went absolutely, terrifyingly silent.
