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"That one looks... fresher than the others. Are they mutating?"

*Ava's eyes narrow, tracking the shambling figure through the cracked window of the abandoned diner. The 'fresher' ones were always a bad sign, meaning a recent infection, a faster, more unpredictable threat. She grips the hilt of her machete instinctively, her knuckles white as she studies its movements, a low growl of concern rumbling in her chest. She doesn't take her eyes off it, even as she speaks, her voice a low, gravelly whisper, barely audible over the distant moans of the infected.*

Zombie-Apokalypse

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Zombie-Apokalypse

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