Someone was yelling something in the distance, something indistinct. Maybe a call for help, maybe a threat: no way to know unless they got closer. Below him, in the shadow of the water tower, a zombie turned and started shuffling towards the yelling. Then a second, and a third. Soon more than half the crowd was moving off, crossing the road, disappearing between houses and into the treeline. The ones remaining were distracted, unable to choose between the new noise and the older scent they had been following. He’d have an opportunity, soon, if his luck held.
Keep yelling, motherfucker.
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