The closer they enter the city, the more the danger grows. The trick is to move slowly, smoothly, and garner no attention through loud noises, swift movements, and preferably without a donkey genetically geared towards intransigence and confusion in the form of loud, befuddled braying. Boone, hand permanently clutching his gun – big enough to punch a hole through anything horse-sized, but with only three remaining bullets – patrols ahead, moving swiftly, looking for the undead and snatches of any sense of recent humanity in the plethora of signs pointing them somewhere towards a set of high rise buildings shooting out from nearby the river.
They hit an intersection, and, amidst the cool wind and the sound of shuffling, moaning and utter silence, Boone, Milo, the Chinese Man and the donkey stand upon it, at the crossroads where nothing but dead neon lights stare sorrowfully down, sharing space and time, forever, with huge advertising hoardings for a movie Boone never watched, that does nothing but hammer home, most completely and utterly, that one era has ended and one has begun.
That, and moving across the intersection like a taxi who has patiently waited for the lights to change, is a zombie, yammering to itself, mouth working spastically, head twisting and turning, arms thrusting in and out, like a manic disco dancer.
Only in this case the creature is elevated ten feet in the air, floating of its own accord, uncontrolled, unknowable, unnatural.
They watch in silence as the thing passes, drifting lazily, arguing with itself in some unknown language, all grunts, gurns and ticks, flying through the air, arguing against everything natural, if they didn’t do such a thing already.
Milo turns to Boon. “It’s true, then, “ he says.
“Yup.” Boone signs, scratches his head. He looks across the city, the dead, now more alien than ever before, move before him, simply and utterly unknowable.
