Out in the fields late at night.
Two people moved across uneven ground, their steps muffled by loose dirt.
Clyde held Kimm's hand tightly, guiding her forward. They inched closer to the apartment complex, crouching from the other side of the highway.
"Kimmy," he whispered, "what do you sense?"
She stopped, brows twitching. Then, her grip tightened.
"Soldiers, and survivors," she replied, "A lot of them."
"That doesn't make a lot of sense!" Clyde frowned, "Kimmy, look carefully. It might be—"
"No!" Kimmy insisted, "They're not scattered. They... they're organized, Clyde! There's... patrols, there's squads. They are moving, not fumbling around!"
Clyde shook his head, "That's impossible. A surviving squad is already a miracle. There shouldn't be this many!"
The meteor strike had shoved humans off their footing, wiped their cities clean, and left a land unaccustomed to life.
In their place were the undead that lived on these lands, and the superhumans that survived from it.
