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glance as well, and it calms down as he does, searching to see
which of his kin actually has the strength to progress further. He
searches, but he never sees our zombie. How could he with no
eyes?
    The more our zombie walks
through the greenery, the thicker the forest becomes. Soon he isn't
even walking anymore, but making multiple forced, pushing, strides
through tree trunks and healthy shrubbery. His torso and legs have
taken quite a beating from the branches and so has his face. Some
of the more damaging scratches have begun to leak blood. I say
blood, but it's more of an inky black fluid. One can only assume,
as it flows from the undead man's wounds. They don't seem to bother
him, even as they continue to accumulate with each thrusting step
forward. The more he pushes, the more the sharp twigs vandalize his
already rotting skin and tattered clothes until, *BAM* … He is
stuck.
    He lets out a low growl and
tries one more of his forced, thrusting steps, but his leg fails to
escape the veiny grasp of the tangled bushes below. Then he
violently shakes his whole body, trying with ferocious intent for a
few seconds to break the hold that the forest now has on him, but
again, he fails. His body then relaxes into the leaves, and for a
moment it looks as though he is going to give up and just hang
there like the rest of the underachievers that failed behind him,
but he can't. He explodes into a sudden fury, letting out a mighty
roar that echoes through the night air.
    It travels a long way, his
roar, floating high above and throughout the trees, carried by the
wind on a highway of invisible current to many different
destinations. The most interesting of these destinations is a
simple, lonely cabin about a half a mile deeper into the woods. The
inside of this cabin is badly lit. In fact, the only sources of
light are a turned on flashlight, a couple of oil lamps, and a
shaded plug-in lamp. All of these poor excuses for light are
scattered around the floor of one of the cabin's back rooms, where
there are three people settled on the floor; a young girl with long
blonde hair, an older brunette woman with beautiful tear filled
blues, and an older man with wavy blonde locks pasted to his
forehead. He looks to be injured and very sick.
    It is in the brightest
corner of this room that the older woman sits beside him, he who is
stretched out upon blankets that have been laid out on the floor.
They don't look very comfortable, but they do him much better than
the bare hardwood floor would. The woman tries to make the man feel
more comfortable in any way she can, wringing a washcloth into a
bucket of water set nearby and rubbing his forehead gently with it.
She looks worriedly at the shoddily bandaged bloody gash on the
man's right forearm, closer to his wrist.
    The blonde teenager stands
by the room's window, looking out into the blackness of the night.
She hears an echoing bellow coming from somewhere outside and tells
herself it is only the wind, but in her heart she knows it could be
anything. The howling makes her soul shudder, and she shakes her
head, disgusted by the new world she lives in. She turns to the
older couple and makes her way over to the corner where they rest.
The older woman is so focused on the fevered man that she doesn't
even notice when the young girl is standing right beside
them.
    LongBlondeHairedGirl: How is he doing?
    The older woman doesn't
respond. She continues to wipe the man's forehead, and we hear her
begin to weep and sniffle.
    LongBlondeHairedGirl: Mom?… How is he doing?
    The young girl waits for a
response. It takes a few seconds to arrive, but eventually does.
The young girl's mother turns her head reluctantly away from the
man to look up at her wondering daughter. The tears are flowing
down her dirt stained cheeks. The three of them have obviously been
through a tumultuous journey, travelling from wherever they came
from to get to this point. They are all dirty; not only the older woman,
and