The sturdy Jack Russell stops. Stands still, goes low, belly to the rough ground and issues a low growl. The man stops as well and sees the oncoming danger. A shambling old man, slack-jawed in a ragged suit. His remaining hair hangs limp on his balding head. His eyes are filmy, glazed, and flies are buzzing around him. He has one shoe missing and is dragging the other leg. His arms hang unnaturally at his sides, and the left arm is sporting a large wound that looks more like a tear. That was the infected bite, the man thinks to himself.
The path he and the dog have been walking has been very quiet so far. This is the first ghoul they have seen in days, maybe a week.
He and dog have been using the paths alongside rivers and canals as a way of avoiding built-up areas. Camping by the side to make good use of the isolation. They only go astray to loot houses and only when he think it’s a calculated risk. The dog is invaluable. He can sniff out danger very quickly. It has a nose for the ghouls, and his built-in protective nature means that the man always has an early warning device.
They’ve been out in the elements for quite some time now. They have supplies, a tent, and sleeping bags. Everything you can think of to successfully survive outside. He knows it’s not enough, though. It’s late summer, and they need to get somewhere safe before winter.
It’s going to take some time, but he already has a place in mind, but to get there will take time and caution.
First though. He needs to take care of Mr Shuffles.
He reaches around his back and pulls the crowbar from the makeshift holster he has dangling from his belt. He knows better than getting too close. tale it easy and let the ghoul do all the work. He scans for any strays before he commits. Don’t want to get caught up in an undead scrum.
He takes a step forward and lets the ghoul get his scent, it sniffs immediately and gathers pace. As much as it can do anyway. It ungainly lumbers forward, and its momentum carries it forward, teeth bared as he side steps and swings the crowbar. It smashes through the soft skull, taking half the creature's brains with the bone and viscera as it passes through. A red wet mist hangs in the air where the head once was, and the once-human crumples to the ground with a dull thud.
He kicks it lightly to get a reaction, but it is now quite dead.
The dog is sat off to the side. Calmly wagging its tail, giving the dead thing a good coat of looking at.
“It’s dead”, the man tells the dog. The dog looks at the man, “Yes, I fucking know”, the dog says inside his head.
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