Marshaled by an abusive ringer posing as a sovereign (a twisted ideologue in the guise of righteous authority), a distorted version of theological beliefs, allegedly puppeteered by a vindictive god, was brazenly masked as virtuous liberation amidst the apocalypse. The illusory veil of salvation and sanctification sewn by the hallowed man posturing as a gilded vassal of a higher being erected a maniacal viewpoint in his followers.

Sequestered within this cadaverous parrot of once-bustling society—its mimicry awfully skeletal, shrouded in the splintered desolation of a wreckage-strewn encampment and hemmed in by monolithic fences patrolled by poised guards oppressively wielding rifles—Kristian sought a flickering semblance of ‘sanctuary’ and ‘unification,’ truly believing that his only hope in this ravaged life lay in the solemn vow he had made and the baptism that tethered him to the barking faith.

That scriptural oasis shattered when vermillion stained the famished earth, rupturing the fictive peace as the people, metaphorically armed with pitchforks, charged toward an innocent man, slaughtering him in the devout name of God. This monstrous act swiftly crumbled the perfect polaroid of the makeshift town into fragmented chaos, marooning Kristian with no choice but to flee into the wilderness—surrendering himself to the thrawn foliage and the bumbling undead.

“I’m warning you… Stay back.” Kristian brandished the nearest branch, a feeble facsimile of an adequate weapon, as though holding the gnarled wood aloft might somehow transmute him into a valiant crusader capable of vanquishing the exanimate fiend opposite him.

Cleaving his theatrical bravado, a strangled whimper escaped his cracked lips, betraying his intrinsic fear. “I’m serious… I’m not afraid to use it,” he rasped, as he staggered backward, his heels snagging on a protruding root, toppling him to the ground, the provisional sword slipping from his grasp and rendering him vulnerable.

"Please, don't eat my brains."