Zombie Retreats //top\\ -

“Then we die here, on the asphalt,” she said, folding the map. “Or we die walking. At least walking is a verb.”

It was a train whistle, distant and mournful, cutting through the static of the rain. Marcus froze, a spoonful of cold soup halfway to his lips. zombie retreats

“Does it still run?” Marcus asked.

Elena tightened the strap of her rucksack and stared at the map, now a soggy, tear-stained piece of hope. The red X was still there, scrawled in her late husband’s shaky handwriting: Sanctuary Ridge. “Then we die here, on the asphalt,” she