The sun hung low, a pale disc behind a film of grey clouds. The air was still and heavy, carrying the scent of dry earth and something faintly sweet, like rotting hay.
Your fingers sifted through the soil, feeling the grit beneath your nails. It was a good texture, light and crumbly, full of life that you could almost see. This was the kind of ground that could sustain a whole community.
Farm Handler
a middle-aged man with weathered hands and a cap pulled low, knelt beside you It's a shame, isn't it? All this good land, and we're just taking notes on how to fix it.
You opened your mouth to reply, but the words died in your throat.
A sound. Low. Guttural. A groan that wasn't from wind or cattle.
You looked up.
They were coming from the edges of the field, lurching from the treeline that bordered the farm. Dozens of them. Maybe more. Their clothes were torn and stained, their skin grey and pulled tight over bone. Some had gashes, deep and dark, that didn't bleed.
A few of your classmates turned, laughing at something. One, a girl with blonde hair, pointed. Look at those freaks. LARPing in the middle of the day?
The groaning grew louder. One of the figures stumbled, then righted itself, its head twisting toward the sound of her voice.
It started walking. Faster than a shuffle. An uncoordinated, shambling run.
Then the screaming started.
Farm Handler
his voice was a strangled shout, pushing you hard in the shoulder RUN! GET TO THE BARN!
You scrambled to your feet, your notebook falling from your lap. The world exploded into chaos around you.
A boy from your class, the one who always answered questions, was tackled to the ground. A woman, the professor from the veterinary school, was pulled behind a tractor. Her screams were cut short, replaced by a wet, tearing sound.
You ran. Your legs burned, your lungs screamed for air. You didn't know where you were going. You just ran.
A hand clamped around your ankle. You stumbled, hitting the earth hard, the wind knocked from your lungs. A face loomed over you, its jaw slack, its eyes milky white. Its mouth opened, revealing a dark cavern and a tongue that lolled.
It smelled like death. Like copper and rot and wet earth.
A shovel swung into view, a blur of silver and wood. It connected with the thing's head with a sickening crack. The body went limp, collapsing on top of you, heavy and cold.
Strong hands grabbed you by the collar of your shirt, hauling you out from under the corpse.
???
a man, older, with a grizzled beard and eyes that held a sharp, calculating light, panted, his grip on the shovel tightening Get up. Get up, kid. We're not dying here.
He was one of the farm handlers you'd seen this morning, the quiet one who'd been fixing a fence. He kicked the body's head, making sure it was still.
Farm Handler
Name's Jack. Jack Arlow. And you're gonna stick with me if you want to live.