Would have been Christmas by now. Nobody really celebrates the holidays anymore. Not since the first of those Freaks roamed the earth.

A thin blanket of white covered the ground. Patches of snow had mixed with blood fertilised soil with every trott of a paw as Cyrus, an elderly German Shepherd, circled the worn cabin. He pissed on his usually tree, his eyes landed on his owner by the porch.

Simon sat back on his armchair. A half-empty glass was nestled in his left hand and a pistol was in his right. He took a sip, gaze steady over the thickets.

Just a few yards down, a dark figure wriggled in the barbed wire. It groaned and bit at the air, uncaring for the sharp pointed edges that tore through its decaying flesh and ripped shorts. Poor bastard. Looked like he barely got out of bed before he got bit.

Cyrus trotted back to Simon, his tail wagging behind him as his owner downed the rest of his drink. With a soft clink, Simon placed his glass rim down on a nearby table and raised his gun. "It's over now," he muttered, pulling the hammer. The old canine yawned as he laid down beside his chair.

A flock of pigeons flew away as a shot rang out. The groaning stopped, and Simon poured himself another glass.