We are at a crossroads—an intersection on a lost highway choked with scorched and toppled cars. A lawman approaches. He carries a gas can. The service station is a stockyard of abandoned vehicles forming a makeshift village—a refugee camp—but there are no signs of life. Just trash, moldy food and fly-buzzed corpses. The lawman steps toward a pump to get the fuel he needs for his police cruiser—and a sound stops him. He turns. There is no one there. He drops to his knees and looks under a car. On the other side, a pair of feet in rabbit-ear slippers shuffles toward a teddy bear. The lawman stands. He sees all of her now—a little girl, walking away from him. He calls to her. His eyes widen with hope, but no: She is a Walker—a haunted, rabid husk of rotting flesh with a rictus smirk and an inhuman hunger. The lawman knows what must be done, but he hesitates. This isn’t easy. Not yet. He pulls the trigger. Headshot and splatter. What little that was truly left of the little girl is finally lost for good, and the lawman is again alone.
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