Ethan's grip tightened around the metal pipe as he brought it down again and again, each blow aimed squarely at the zombie's skull. Anywhere else was useless—only the head worked.
With every strike, more blood gushed from the creature's cracked scalp, its movements growing sluggish, like a puppet with its strings fraying.
Then, with a final, brutal swing, Ethan caved the skull in. Bone shattered. The zombie collapsed in a heap, twitching once before going still.
For a moment, the rooftop was silent—except for the wet splatter of blood and brain matter painting the concrete.
"Ugh…"
Ethan dropped to his knees and doubled over, dry-heaving. He hadn't thought about it while he was swinging—just focused on surviving, on ending it fast. But now, staring at the mess he'd made, the red and white pulp smeared across the floor, his stomach turned inside out.
There was nothing left in him to throw up. Just bile and the bitter taste of adrenaline.
"Ugh…"
