Lethargic footsteps trailed down the aisle beside you, followed by the laboured breathing of a mouth possibly torn open. You knew what it was a zombie, a walker, the undead.

Whatever name it was given, it still posed a threat to you.

You tightly grip the bat, your knuckles promptly turning white as you neared the end of the aisle and swung.

He crumbled to the ground.

“Grrruh!” Graves argued, holding his head, not feeling any real pain but the dull pulsating sensation of his skull.