NIGHTMARES OF THE WALKING DEAD

The Kingdom’s infirmary smells of antiseptic and damp rot. Seth sits on the edge of a cot, the bandage on his left arm throbbing. Outside, the rhythmic metallic clanging of reconstruction efforts echoes against the walls, but the air is tense. Blake sits near the window, peering out at the courtyard where the rebuilding crews work with frantic, desperate energy.

Seth stands up, his balance slightly off as he adjusts to his prosthetic. He strides out of the infirmary, leaving the safety of the interior for the bustling, muddy courtyard. He catches sight of King Ezekiel standing on the observation platform, his hand gripped tight on the railing as he watches the horizon with a grim, fixed stare. Something is wrong out past the walls.

Seth strides toward the iron gate, his boot heels grinding against gravel. He catches a sickening sound from the perimeter, a wet, rattling gasp from a soldier who fell during the last skirmish. The body shifts, its jaw unhinging with a jagged snap.

Seth surges forward, his steel blade extended. With a precise, practiced movement, he drives the steel through the creature's skull before the transition is complete. He rises, chest heaving, his gaze locked onto the remaining pile of corpses strewn across the inner courtyard.

The guards stare, pale and trembling, as the reality of the threat settles in. From the observation deck, King Ezekiel turns away from the horizon, his face tight with grim resolve.