A shiver ran down my spine, the kind that had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the sound behind me.
That wet, gurgling moan.
The slow, dragging of dozens—no, hundreds—of decayed feet against the pavement.
I didn't want to turn around.
I really didn't.
But my body betrayed me, and before I could stop myself, I glanced back.
Shit.
Lord have mercy.
The horde was getting closer. Their bloated, rotting bodies moved in a sea of grotesque, writhing flesh, arms reaching, jaws snapping, eyes glassy and void of anything but hunger. The sound of them filled the air—low groans, bones cracking with each movement, the wet squelch of flesh barely clinging to their skeletal frames.
A fresh wave of nausea rolled through me, but there was no time for fear.
I had to get inside.
I whirled back to the glass doors, my breath fogging against them as I pounded my fist against the surface.
And that's when I saw them.
Eyes.
