by Morgana Wray
It would have been unwise to have played the brave fool, and defended the estate. We didn’t have the numbers. We would have been overwhelmed eventually, no matter how valiantly we would have fought.
As we got further away from the estate, In the distance, I could see the striking figure of a man standing tall amongst a small crowd of people. There was thick fur wrapped around his neck and his fists were clenched. There wasn’t a frown on his face. Just intense focus.
Half of his face had been burnt by intense fire. He was partially disfigured by whatever ordeal that had led to him getting burnt. I would have hated to wake up to look at that ugly mug every morning in the mirror. No wonder he didn’t have anything to smile about.
The tattoos on his skin looked as if they had been burnt into his flesh with a branding iron. The scarring was quite extensive.
His fingers seemed to glitter. They were covered with silver ornaments. He must have been some sort of chieftain or leader. The other guys around him weren’t moving a muscle without his nod. He was still as a statue and so were those who followed him.
The road was dark. As dark as the times that we had found ourselves in. We were afraid of getting bit by the undead. But we were scared shitless of being slaughtered very slowly by some barbaric reprobates with a grudge. We might have outrun them for the moment, but we knew they would keep hunting us until we were dead, or they all were.